


fool's gold

by princessoftheworlds, violetmessages



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Action/Adventure, Audio 3: The Golden Age (Torchwood), British Raj, Canon Rewrite, Colonialism, F/F, F/M, Historical, India, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28473084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds, https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetmessages/pseuds/violetmessages
Summary: In 1924: Torchwood India, an outpost in the Empire's shining jewel, gains a new member. Facing challenging new leadership from the Duchess and a visit from the charming Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood India and its members may not find itself running much longer.In 2009: On the trail of a powerful energy field, Jack, Ianto, and Gwen are led to Delhi. There they discover a wave of hundreds of disappeared locals that, along with the energy signal centers on an old colonial mansion — Torchwood India. Only, it's not deserted as Jack expected.Or: Torchwood's The Golden Age, rewritten.
Relationships: Gwen Cooper & Ianto Jones, Gwen Cooper & Jack Harkness & Ianto Jones, Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones, Jack Harkness/Other(s), Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 17
Kudos: 30
Collections: Torchwood Fan Fests: The Year That Never Was Fest





	fool's gold

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to our Golden Age rewrite, which we are so happy to have finally finished. It's a process several months in the making, from its original inception in mid-October to our final edits only a few days ago. We are so excited to finally share it with everyone! 
> 
> We first decided to start on this project when Violet listened to The Golden Age and wasn't necessarily pleased with the audio's plot, lack of proper historical context, and lack of actual Indian characters. As South Asians, both of us felt that the audio did not accurately (or respectfully) reflect the India under British Raj we'd heard about from our parents and grandparents, and thus, the idea for a rewrite was spawned.
> 
> In between classes and finals, we brainstormed, drafted, wrote, and edited the entirety of this beast. The finished version of fool's gold features several original Indian characters of varying Indian regional backgrounds and sexualities to reflect the diversity of India, our own identities, and the Torchwood fandom as we know it. 
> 
> Growing up as South Asians in the United States, both of us felt underrepresented by the media that we consumed - it was rarely that we got to see ourselves represented, and more often than not, we saw ourselves reduced to stereotypes. We felt that it would be important to include actual Indians in our fic set in India, ones that were not simply typecasted. 
> 
> Half of this fic is set in the 1920’s, a time when India - comprised of India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh until 1947 - was still considered a British colony. During this time, there was an increased call for independence, especially after many grew tired of imperialist policies that were set in place. This fic includes characters who hold imperialist attitudes that were common at the time. Although we, the authors, do not condone these attitudes and statements in any way, it would be historically inaccurate to say that they did not exist and still exist to this day.
> 
> We would like to thank Annika for her incredible beta work, our friends for listening to us ramble about this fic for ages, and those Torchwood fans who allowed us to rant about characters of colors' mistreatment in both the show, the fandom, and general fandom wank. We’d also like to thank Ruairidh for going through the fic and checking to see if we needed a glossary, and for giving us amusing commentary on it. 
> 
> Without any further ado, we present our rewrite of The Golden Age, fool's gold. Enjoy!

** PART ONE **

**March 3, 1924**

_“Hand over the time stone,” Laksh pressures, “and we will let you leave here alive.”_

_Smirk widening, the Duchess pulls the time stone from the folds of her dress and holds it to the light, watching the wireframe gleam. “This is what you want?” she asks, and Laksh nods angrily. But the Duchess doesn’t make to move, because from behind them, there is a shout._

_“You cannot do this,” shouts Mahajan, eyes narrowed. This is the most reactive Edward has ever seen the squirrel-faced bastard. “The Duchess has never treated you with anything but what you deserve. She will bring Hindustan a new,_ wonderful _golden age. We cannot be trusted to govern ourselves.”_

_“She will never see you as anything other than scum beneath her boot,” Laksh warns, his expression disbelieving._

_Mahajan’s face contorts, and he whips a long, gleaming purple crystal from his pocket. The Duchess’s eyes widen, her fingers knotting against the silver wire of the time stone, but she stays silent as Mahajan smashes the crystal onto the carpet. A wave of energy roars through the air, ballooning from where the crystal lies split in two, sparks shattering the air in the parlor. Laksh begins to yell, Ambika reaching for Noor. Edward attempts to lunge forward for Mahajan._

_Then time_ slows _and_ stops _._

* * *

**April 2009**

**Gwen**

The streets that Torchwood Three stalks through are crowded with people, dusty stalls flocked with colorful wares - the bright cloth of traditional clothing and of the more Western, pretty yet cheap trinkets and jewelry, sandals and trainers - manned by eagle-eyed hawkers, and shops plastered with old signboards, in both Hindi and English. Some look like they’ve been there longer than Ianto or Gwen has been alive, and one of every few is littered with a spelling error that causes an English-educated reader a moment of pause.

Most travel through on foot, unmindful of the muddy ground beneath their feet, but every so often, a bulky scooter or auto rickshaw will motor on through, sending up clouds of dust and exhaust into the air and causing nearby pedestrians to cough and glare after said vehicle.

The fourth time this happens, Gwen forces Jack and Ianto to either side of her and walks between them; the trio has already drawn a several curious looks from the locals of this older part of Delhi, some for the color of their skin - but not so much, as tourists are common in this city, though apparently not many Welsh ones - but more so really for the bulky equipment they carry and the high-tech scanners she and Ianto sweep along their surroundings. Every once in a while, a curious look will turn narrow and suspicious.

A bead of sweat trickles down the back of Gwen’s neck, only further dampening the collar of her t-shirt on both sides; when people talked about how hot and humid India is, they could never truly encapsulated the muggy feeling of the air, the instant stickiness that clung to one’s skin the moment they stepped off the plane.

Briefly, Gwen wonders if winters in India, or at least in Delhi, are any better. Then she supposes not, considering the climate and the lack of heating in traditional homes that she’s read about when they were doing their research prior to arrival.

“Anything yet?” she asks Ianto, peering over his shoulder at the scanner and wincing as her clothing drags against her skin. She’s already scraped her hair back into a messy ponytail, although her bangs are still plastered against her forehead; there’s not much more relief from the sun she can provide herself. She fumbles for the water bottle stuck in the pocket of the backpack hoisted over Ianto’s shoulder and attempts not to guzzle the entire bottle empty.

Ianto glares at her as she slips the half-empty water bottle back. It’s entirely disorienting to see him not in his usual suit and in shorts and a t-shirt instead, but he wouldn’t have lasted a minute in this heat, worse than even a Cardiff summer. Even Jack’s made adjustments, trading his greatcoat for his own t-shirt and shorts, though he doesn’t look like he’s suffering nearly as much as Ianto and Gwen, making her wonder - not exactly for the first time - where exactly he grew up.

“Nothing yet,” replies Ianto, forehead wrinkling as his lips purse. He moves the scanner back to eye level with one of the local shops they pass. “The energy signal is getting stronger, but I still can’t pinpoint its actual point of origin.”

“I wouldn’t mind if it hurried up,” Gwen grumbles, the ground squashing beneath her already-dirty trainers as she nearly steps in another puddle. “I would like to return to the hotel. Where there’s air conditioning.”

She knows she sounds a tad bit whiny, but she doesn’t care, not any more. This morning, when they’d first left the hotel, she’d been energetic and hopeful and very much on-board with everything, but after hours of searching these Delhi streets, with only an hour in the air-con of a McDonald’s for respite, she - and Ianto, to a lesser degree - has been worn down.

“Oh, cheer up,” says Jack, beaming as he always is. In true Jack fashion, he’s winking at locals where he can, setting off furious Hindi whispers among their observers. “Look on the bright side! We’re in a brand new country, for once! Torchwood Three, jetsetting around the globe.”

“All we’ve seen so far are these streets,” Ianto notes, slight impatience shading his tone as he tweaks settings on the scanner.

“You could have at least taken us to the Taj Mahal first,” agrees Gwen as they continue drifting forward down this endless street.

Jack shoots them an amused look. “This is time-sensitive. An energy signature on levels like the Rift in a city this big? We want to take care of that ASAP so we can get home and get UNIT out of Cardiff.” A pause. “Plus, the Taj Mahal’s in Agra. That’s a completely different city.”

Gwen shrugs. “I still wouldn’t mind seeing it.”

“Onwards then,” Jack says, speeding up, and Gwen and Ianto exchange glances behind his back. Ianto rolls his eyes.

As they trudge forward, Gwen’s bare leg accidentally brushes against a newspaper poking out from between two stalls. Curiously, she tugs it free and scrapes off some dried mud until the type is visible only to discover that it’s in Hindi. She folds the newspaper over, searching for an English section, and startles when she finds it.

_FIFTH PERSON DISAPPEARS FROM SHAHJAHANABAD THIS WEEK, CONFOUNDS DELHI POLICE_

Quickly, Gwen scans the article and discovers that for the last few months, Delhi locals have been frequently going missing without a trace, numbering at least in the hundreds. The police have no clue what is going on, and further investigations have been fruitless.

As a former police officer, Gwen knows that in a city this size, people will always go missing, often the poor, the disenfranchised, the forgotten, and not too many will take notice.

But this? This many people? Others have noticed.

Further down in the article are descriptions of young men walking out late and not returning, children never arriving at school, mothers and fathers and grandmothers and grandfathers stepping out of their homes and not stepping back in.

“Jack?” Gwen asks, newspaper loose in her grip. “Where’s Shajahanabad?”

He glances back at her in surprise, grinding to a sudden halt. “This is Shahjahanabad, this area we’re in right now at least. It’s the older part of Delhi, built originally during the reign of the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan.”

Vaguely, from school, Gwen recalls that he is the one who built the Taj Mahal for his wife, and she bites her lip. Jack’s eyes narrow, and she hands him the newspaper. Ignoring the raised voices and grumbling in Hindi coming from behind them, Torchwood Three crowds off to the side, Jack and Ianto poring over the paper. Their expressions become aghast, Ianto’s mouth pinched.

“ _Bugger,_ ” he says.

“This,” begins Jack. “This likely has something to do with the energy signature we’re tracking.” His face is pale.

“Something similar to the Rift?” Gwen offers anxiously. “Negative spikes?”

Jack shakes his head but still gazes at Ianto. “Ianto,” he orders. “Try setting the scanner to search for all forms of energy spikes. It’s time we stop focusing on Rift energy.”

Ianto nods, flipping a few switches, and immediately, the scanner begins beeping loudly. Ianto’s eyebrows rise. “The energy signature is emanating from further down the street.” He points forward. “We just couldn’t detect it before because we weren’t scanning for it.”

They race down the street, ducking around dwaddling locals and other tourists, drawing more and more glares and suspicious stares. Finally, Ianto calls for them to stop, and Gwen nearly slips as her head snaps to the side.

There, sandwiched between two stores with battered signs, is a skinny stretch of wall with a fancy door of dark wood, carved with elaborate swirling patterns that are distinctly Indian. Painted neatly on a sign above the door, in perfect English, is the title - _ROYAL CONNAUGHT CLUB._

It’s totally out of place on this busy street, the visible sample of architecture definitely of a more archaic, traditional design, with a partial domed ceiling and some half-columns, all in a glowing white, yet Gwen gets the general sense that had she not been looking for it specifically, she, Jack, and Ianto would have walked right past it.

“Holy shit,” breathes Jack, mouth dropped open in a gape that’s somehow still attractive. He has come to an immediate halt, flanked by Gwen and Ianto.

Both of them glance at him, scrutinizing his shocked expression.

“What is it, Jack?” asks Ianto curiously. “Have you been here before?”

“Yeah,” Jack replies off-handedly, as if swept up in a tidal wave of memories. “I have been here before. Eighty years ago.” He gulps nervously, and Gwen notes that this is actually quite odd for Jack Harkness. She rarely sees him look this nervous, if ever. “I helped shut this place down.”

* * *

**March 1922**

**Noor**

When Mehrunnissa, later referred to as Mehrunnissa Begum - or more standardly, Noor - for most of her life, is born, her father is very pleased. He and his wife have already had two sons to carry on their family name, and despite most of his extended family’s displeasure - his mother and father especially, he adores the apple-cheeked Noor.

Noor’s grandparents had originally been related to the Nawab of Awadh, but when the Mughal kingdom had been annexed in 1856, her family had fled the gorgeous city of Lucknow and eventually, over time, made their way to Delhi. Still, they carry the lineage, status, and wealth of royalty, which Noor quite blessedly enjoys throughout her childhood, along with the fortune and favor of being her father’s favorite child.

Unlike other high-class, wealthy Muslim girls of her age, Noor learns both the traditional wifely duties but also studies under the most well-educated tutors her father’s money can buy. She learns maths, reads Shakespeare alongside Rabindranath Tagore, traces the history of her ancestors through Hindustan, and more. By far, her favorite subjects to learn are languages; she practically collects them. Hindi, Urdu, English, Punjabi, and bits of Greek, Latin, French, and Spanish.

Her tutors call her a linguistic prodigy. Her mother clucks her tongue and attempts to teach her how to cook new dishes. Her brothers ignore her mostly but shout at their father when she sneaks away their books from Aligarh Muslim University. But her father beams down at her with pride.

Thus, at the ripe age of twenty, when her few other friends have already been married away to eligible men and when Noor stands before her father and begs to be able to take up a job, her father frowns before granting his permission.

Only for a year or two, he says. After all, this is still 1922 Hindustan.

Then he uses his connections to secure her a government job as the secretary to the Duke of Melrose, Reginald Poppycock. Little do either of them know, the Duke works not at a financial office but rather at Torchwood India, a research and monitoring outpost station of the Torchwood Institute.

Once Noor discovers this, she’s already been sworn to secrecy, to Torchwood, and - indirectly - to the British Empire, not that she’s necessarily pleased with this fact. Public sentiment against the British in Hindustan has been rising, and although she’s never been allowed to form and express her own opinions, she’s heard what her brothers and father have been saying.

Still, she wants to work, and if Torchwood is where it’s going to be, so be it.

Her first day is certainly not what she expects.

Torchwood India is headquartered in the Royal Connaught Club, on the northern periphery of Shahjahanabad. Women are not allowed inside, apart from a few exceptions, and thus, Noor is forced to meet a squirrelly man named Mahajan at the back entrance. She has the tickling sense that her mother would find this the most improper, but her _dupatta_ is already draped over her head as low it can go, her vision slightly blinded by the gauzy fabric.

After the respectful exchange of greetings, during which Noor can practically feel the man’s snide superiority complex and disdain for her status as an educated woman, he instructs her to follow him inside and leads her through the outskirts of several poshly-decorated parlors to a side door near where a white man in a well-cut suit with polished Oxfords waits.

“Your Grace,” Mahajan says, bowing so low that his flat nose nearly greets the floor, “Mehrunnissa Begum has arrived.”

The Duke of Melrose gazes at her with glacier eyes. He’s a sharp-featured man with tufts of brown hair smoothed back.

“ _Salaam._ It is a pleasure to meet you, Mehrunnissa Begum,” he says with a slight bow and nod. His voice is just as rich as that of the other Britishers Noor has heard. “Are you prepared to begin your work at Torchwood?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” replies Noor as demurely as she can. She ducks her head, and had her dupatta not been pinned securely, it would have likely slid off. She has dressed as conservatively for today as she possibly can in her _kurta,_ _gharara,_ _dupatta,_ and _jutti._

The Duke slips the door open to reveal a set of shallow stairs that lead downwards in a dimly-lit stairwell, and he gestures for her to descend before following after her, pulling the door shut behind them. Briefly, Noor experiences a dizzying sense of claustrophobia but keeps moving, the feeling quickly dissipating.

They emerge into a large, underground yet well-lit space with a high ceiling and full of scientific and other odd-looking instruments that Noor can not even begin to describe. There are three desks pushed to the edges of the room, two covered in papers and files and bits of technology, one desk bare. A small alcove in a corner, tiled in white, appears to be the medical bay and contains another desk pushed against the wall.

A small group of men and women, two Hindustani, two not, wait scattered around the doorway. The white woman, also sharp-featured with blond hair coiled up and dressed in a conservative, finely-cut maroon silk dress and matching sensible shoes, has a more-than-healthy length of distance between her and the other three.

“Is this the girl?” she asks sharply when Noor steps through, accent rich as the Duke’s. She lifts her head at a haughty angle, cold blue eyes glinting, and scans her dismissively, though Noor has enough self-control to maintain her demure demeanor. “Shouldn’t she be dressed more… modernly for a secretary?”

The Duke gives the woman a slight, tolerant smile. To Noor, he says, “This is my beloved wife, the Duchess of Melrose, Eleanor.” He doesn’t sound like the Duchess is “beloved” to him, but the Duchess spares Noor another half-nod, sniffing before slipping elegantly past Noor to ascend the stairs.

Then the Duke gazes upon the remaining group. “This is Mehrunnissa Begum,” he says, gesturing to Noor. “I kindly request one of you to lead her on a tour of the facilities.” He bows again to Noor. “Welcome to Torchwood India. It remains our duty to protect the British Empire from extraterrestrial threats and to arm ourselves for the future of the Empire. I will explain your formal duties to you later, but my presence is currently required elsewhere.”

Then he disappears as well, leaving Noor with the three strangers. The Hindustani woman steps forward, her lithe figure draped in an elegant and brightly-colored silk _sari_. She is slightly darker-skinned than Noor, with sharp cheekbones, dark clever eyes, and fine hair braided back and barely visible underneath her _pallu_.

“ _Salaam,_ ” she says with an inclined bow and a graceful swoop of her hand before continuing in Hindi. “ _My name is Ambika Devi Khanna. Please, call me Ambika. I am the mathematician here at Torchwood India. Welcome._ ”

“ _Thank you,_ ” replies Noor, also in Hindi. “ _My name is Mehrunnissa, but I would like it if you called me Noor._ ” Her smile to Ambika is returned pleasantly, the other woman’s eyes crinkling sweetly, and Noor feels an odd flutter in her heart.

Abruptly, she turns to the two men. One is darker-skinned than both her and Ambika, with a broad forehead and black curly hair, and wears a dress shirt and jacket tucked into a _dhoti._ He smiles kindly at her. In a slightly unfamiliar accent, he says, “ _I am Thirumangalam Madhavan Lakshmanan, Torchwood India’s physicist._ ” Before Noor can attempt to stumble over his name, he amends himself, “ _Call me Laksh. It is a pleasure to meet you!_ ” And then he bows to her as well.

“ _Thank you, Laksh,_ ” Noor says, nodding before facing the final man.

He is pale-skinned but with a sharp jawline, dark hair and dark eyes; initially, she’d taken him for another Britisher, but she can see slight hints of a Hindustani parent in his features. “I am Edward Wright,” he says curtly in an accent like the Duke and Duchess’s. “I am the resident doctor. It is wonderful to meet you, but I am afraid I must return to the specimen I was studying.” He bows and nods to her before slipping past, impatience in his stride.

Noor barely masks her gape as he leaves them behind. “Is he always like that?” she asks politely in English.

Ambika nods, and Laksh huffs quietly. “You will get used to it, _begum_ ,” he says.

“If you would like to follow me,” Ambika begins, stepping a tad closer, “I can lead you on a tour of Torchwood India.”

“I would like that very much,” Noor says, ducking her head. She follows after Ambika, already missing the heat of the other woman’s clever gaze on her.

* * *

**April 2009**

**Gwen**

The interior of the Royal Connaught Club is completely at odds with the dusty Delhi streets they’ve been trekking through for the last several hours. There’s a high domed ceiling and archaic doorways and windows lined with handsome wood and gauzy white curtains but also Grecian columns and dark marble flooring with swirling floral designs in intense, muted colors. A grand piano is oriented in the center of the main hall with a grand crystal chandelier glittering above. The furniture is done in similar dark wood as the doors and windows and covered in alternating velvet and cotton embroidered in traditional Indian designs.

“Wow,” says Gwen, gaping around her. It really feels like a different world they’ve stepped into, and Jack, Ianto, and Gwen are completely out of place here. In fact, even in regular circumstances, the only one who would even have a chance of fitting in would be Ianto and that too, only in his usual suits.

“Welcome to Torchwood India,” Jack tells her and Ianto, eyes glinting as he takes in the main hall. Standing beside him, Ianto has raised his eyebrows, the only tell-tale indication of his surprise. Compared to him, Gwen looks like a stereotypical tourist.

She closes her mouth. “Was this really a Torchwood base?” she asks, gaze traveling over the precise details of the club again. “It’s more like a five-star hotel.”

Actually, not even the actual hotel they’re staying in, which Ianto booked a tad frantically once they realized that a trip to India would be required, is this grand. This club seems like a relic from a more opulent time.

“Lots more marble than Torchwood Cardiff,” adds Ianto. His expression is appreciative as he studies the piano, but then again, he’s always been a fancy bloke.

If he’s wasn’t well, _Ianto,_ a man Gwen’s caught with Jack’s hand down his trousers more than once and also a man who once dragged her and Owen - and at the thought of him, she feels the faintest flicker of sadness - to the Electro, she would have sworn he was born in a suit.

As they stand there, huddled and sweaty and dirty, near the entrance, an short, squirrely-featured Indian man in a slightly old-fashioned suit passes by one of those arched doorways, catches sight of them without startling, and changes direction towards them.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen, memsahib,” the man says with only the slightest hint of condescension in his smile when he addresses Gwen. She bristles and bites back a nasty comment, continuing to force her now-strained polite smile. “My name is Mahajan. Welcome back to the Royal Connaught Club, Captain Harkness.” He bows in a formal namaste towards Jack.

Jack smiles back, but his eyes are hard, as are Ianto’s. They both caught the reaction towards Gwen.

She turns to Jack in surprise. “You’re a member?”

Before he can reply, Mahajan continues, “Indeed he is, memsahib, although it appears…” - here, he rustles quickly through the yellowing pages of a guestbook that he’s pulled from a small alcove built into the wall beside the main door - “we haven’t had the pleasure of the captain’s company for over eighty years.”

“You are full of surprises,” Ianto tells Jack, amusement in the curl of his lips. He’s teasing, returned to the more subtle flirting he and Jack have adopted since they landed in India.

“You live a few hundred years, you go to all the best places,” Jack replies with a slight waggle of his eyebrows. Gwen notices his hand discreetly brush against Ianto’s, and she hides her smile.

Never one to miss out on ragging their esteemed leader, she jumps in herself: “Mm, clearly you were a bit classier in the nineteen-twenties.”

Jack rolls his eyes before refocusing his attention on Mahajan. “We’ve come from Torchwood Cardiff,” he says, all business now as he rarely is unless matters are truly serious. An energy signature to match the Rift? Hundreds of Delhites missing? Gwen supposes it is. “Who’s in charge nowadays? I’d like to see them.”

“Very good, Captain Harkness,” Mahajan replies, nodding. “I’ll inform the Duchess of your return.” He makes as if to retreat, but Jack’s next question calls him back.

“The…. _the Duchess?_ Is she still alive?”

“Oh, very much so, sir,” Mahajan tells Jack while Ianto and Gwen watch on in bewilderment. “I shall just go inform her now.”

“Okay…” This is said slowly. Jack’s brow is creased. Once Mahajan is gone, he turns to Ianto and Gwen, frowning. “I swear that man seems familiar,” he murmurs offhandedly.

“Who’s the Duchess?” Ianto asks with the same expression he wears whenever Jack brings up one of his old conquests or friends. Not jealous, just accepting and curious.”

“An old friend. She must be at least a hundred,” Jack replies, stepping closer to Ianto until their shoulders brush, smile brilliant as it always is for Ianto. (Gwen notes that “friend” is said most dubiously.)

Except Ianto’s eyes are not on Jack and are focused on something over his and Gwen’s shoulders.

“Not early forties and carrying a shotgun?”

“ _What?_ ”

Jack and Gwen whirl around just in time, him pulling her and Ianto to duck down, just as the echoing crack of a gunshot shatters the empty main hall. A bullet whizzes by and embeds itself in the wall right behind where Jack’s head had been.

“Captain Jack Harkness, you’re back!” calls a posh feminine voice. A petite woman with golden-blond hair coiffed perfectly, exposing delicately sharp features, storms towards them, her low heels clicking across the smooth marble. The old-fashioned shotgun she aims at Jack is at odds with the dainty cream-colored dress she wears.

“Duchess!” Jack booms, beaming that overexaggerated smile he wears for anyone who isn’t Torchwood, Martha, and the few others he considers his friends or family. He takes a step forward, bringing himself before Ianto and Gwen, gesturing behind him to silence their faint protests. “Did you miss me?”

“Only just.” The Duchess’s painted lips curve into a wicked smile as she reloads her shotgun with a savage _click._ “Didn’t I promise you if I saw you again I’d shoot you?” Her smile widens. “Who’s for seconds?”

A second bullet smashes into a vase near Jack, who yells, diving to the side. Gwen’s fingers are twitching for her gun, stashed quite inconveniently in Ianto’s backpack. Judging by his dark expression, Ianto’s currently thinking about his gun as well.

“Whoops!” the Duchess says, not sounding apologetic in the least. “Sorry, Mahajan.”

“I’m fine, Your Grace,” Mahajan calls politely from where he stands in the doorway. “Carry on.”

“Righty-ho.” The Duchess reloads her shotgun again, and they all flinch. Ianto and Gwen instinctively step before Jack, who is still gracelessly pulling himself back up.

“Du...Duchess, you haven’t aged a day,” Jack says as he shoulders past them, hands held up in the universal gesture of truce.

“Not looking so bad yourself, Captain H,” the Duchess replies, and had she not been carrying a shotgun and already shot at Gwen’s best friend, Gwen would have huffed a laugh at the casualness of her tone. “Goodbye.” She takes aim at Jack again.

“No, wait, wait!” Jack continues, stepping further forward. “We need to talk.” He nears the Duchess, approaching her as one would a crouching predator. Which, Gwen supposes, she is.

“Better be good,” the Duchess remarks coldly. “I never miss on my third shot.”

“Not seen him for eighty years and starts shooting at him,” Ianto murmurs to Gwen as they watch Jack attempt to rest a hand on the Duchess’s shoulder despite the shotgun pointing at his side. A shot this close will certainly maim, if not kill, and Gwen blinks briefly at the thought of Mahajan cleaning the stain of Jack’s blood out of the marble or carpet.

Then she blinks again, wondering - not for the first time - when she’d become so casual about Jack dying. She supposes that’s what Torchwood does to you, burrows underneath your skin and clings to your bones and turns the abnormal normal and the dark or grim something you’d never even blink twice at.

“Old flame?” Gwen asks Ianto after a moment’s pause. Mahajan has since managed to collect the shotgun from the Duchess, her head tilted consideringly as she listens to Jack’s charms.

“Yeah,” Ianto replies quickly, and they exchange glances. “Yeah, most definitely.”

* * *

**June 1922**

**Noor**

The plant, sent over by Torchwood London, is innocuous-looking, green and velvety- and leafy and bears no berries or fruit. Noor’s been watering it at least once a week for the last eight weeks since she began her work at Torchwood India. The other six days, it remains watered by Laksh, but aside from that, there is no scientific examination of the plant.

Noor doesn’t know this - and is later filled in by Ambika - but the plant arrived at the underground base only two weeks before she did, with orders for it to be studied. Laksh and Edward spent perhaps four days watching it, studying it with their advanced equipment, and creating records, which Noor files as part of her duties as the Duke’s secretary, for the unassuming plant. Then they abandoned it, realizing that there was nothing immediate to result from the plant, though they still tended to it and kept an eye on it, presuming that the main branch of Torchwood had no use for it and thus sent it to where the other cast-offs went. Hindustan. Like the Duke and the Duchess. (Like Edward, Ambika says, describing the doctor’s grumbling.)

In fact, nothing happens with the plant, nothing at all, until one muggy afternoon, Billi wanders in, nibbles off a few leaves, and then - two days later - collapses in a dead heap at Noor’s feet, her tiny, furry body quickly charring with some sort of bubbling dark mold that burns the concrete even once Billi has been removed.

There isn’t much of a mourning period for the beloved alley cat that Laksh and Ambika fed and occasionally snuck into the base when the Duke or Duchess were not around. Immediately, Eleanor is screeching about the mangy beast, and Edward is sent to dispose of Billi’s body in the incinerator, sniffing disdainfully. He never liked her.

But the mold? The mold remains, and the mold grows.

The next morning, when Noor rises to bring the Duke his morning briefing, she finds a hardened black mass where the stain had been, gouges in the concrete where this odd mold had eaten away at it. The mold burns through Laksh’s protective gloves and equipment when he attempts to dispose of it. Laksh manages to wash himself just in time.

From there, the mold spreads far too quickly for Torchwood India to contain it. It eats away through everything. The mold begins to originate from the plant itself, burning through the glass of the greenhouse and destroying the other alien plants, as if it could sense some part of distant part of itself and was only reacting.

The mold sweeps across the floor and clambers over Noor and Laksh and Ambika’s desks, leaving them crispy, hollowed-out husks. It spares the medical bay and Edward’s desk simply because it has not spread out in that direction yet.

“ _Allah,_ ” murmurs Noor to herself in Hindi when she, Ambika, Laksh, and Edward are clustered in the parlor, far away from the rot of the main hall. (The Duke and Duchess are safe upstairs in one of the main parlors of the club; the Duke had barked orders at them to “fix this bloody mess!”) She receives a sympathetic look from the other woman and ignores the usual fluttering of her heart; she longs to brush her fingers along the curve of Ambika’s cheeks, ghost her thumb over her lips. She doesn’t know why. “ _What is this monstrous thing?_ ”

“It’s science, not monsters,” Edward snaps. Then he flushes an angry red when he realizes he reacted to the Hindi he claims not to understand. He doesn’t further respond, and they ignore him.

“ _What is this plant?_ ” Ambika asks Laksh urgently in Hindi. “ _Did London send over any further information about it? Is there anything we can do to stop the spread?_ ”

“ _You should be asking if London sent any information_ at all _,_ ” Laksh grumbles. “ _Bloody Englishmen._ ” His fingers curl and flex as he paces the length of the parlor, stomping all over the fine plush carpet. “ _The plant only began to spread its poison_ after _Billi snacked on it. Bloody cat._ ” There is a faint glimmer of sadness and affection in his dark eyes. “ _It was likely a defensive mechanism from the plant. If I can somehow analyze the mold without it burning through my equipment, I could perhaps synthesize a compound neutralizer._ ” He continues murmuring in his native Tamil.

Half of what he has said sails over Noor’s head, but she’s always been bright with her studies. As Ambika begins to look contemplative and Edward bites at his lip, an idea sparks in Noor’s mind. In English, she says, “Have we not a large collection of extraterrestrial artifacts stowed about the base?” A beat. “Could there not be a device there that could contain the mold so that Laksh can study it?”

Edward fixes her with a narrow-eyed look, but there is slight surprise otherwise in his features. “We are not to touch those. Orders from the Duke.”

Ambika wrinkles her shapely nose. “I believe he would forgive us if it helped save Torchwood India.”

Laksh and Edward venture out to the science cabinet accessible in one of the side hallways and emerge with handfuls of strange-looking instruments. Ambika intertwined her fingers with Noor’s, her skin burning where they touch, and pulls her upstairs, to a different parlor than the Duke and Duchess, leaving Edward and Laksh to work.

Hours pass. Noor paces the carpet while Ambika gazes up at her from where she’s collapsed in an armchair.

“ _Why is it taking so long?_ ” Noor frets in Hindi, fingers rooted in the decorative fringe of her _kurta_.

“ _They will be fine,_ ” says Ambika calmly. She takes Noor’s hand again and gently strokes the inside of her wrist. Noor briefly locks gazes with Ambika, blushing fiercely, but glances away. Their hands remained linked until almost an hour later when Laksh finally returns back to the parlor, sweating and with large bags weighting his eyes.

He smiles at them. “The rot has been neutralized,” he says in English, mindful of any members of the club potentially wandering nearby. “Edward has gone to fetch the Duke and Duchess.”

Downstairs, the base resembles a battle scene. Everything is burned or hollowed out, but the mold has been removed, leaving behind only a faint grey ash.

The Duke clicks his tongue at the mess. “Clean this up,” he orders, casting a disdainful stare around. When he rolls up a sleeve of his dress shirt, his suit jacket abandoned elsewhere, Noor catches sight of a dark stain on his forearm.

She gasps loudly, drawing the Duchess’s festering glare. “Your Grace,” she says, pointing to his forearm, and he eyes it in alarm. The Duchess pales.

Quickly, the Duke is bundled away into the medical bay, but all of Edward’s tests come back inconclusive. They assume the burn to be from when the Duke unconsciously brushed against a desk while fleeing upstairs, but in the next few days, after Edward’s watchful gaze, the Duke shows no strange symptoms.

Edward binds a bandage tightly around the burn, and they leave it be.

A week later, when Noor brings the Duke tea in his office, he doubles over coughing, which they dismiss as a side effect of the underground chill. The Duchess’s eyes glint knowingly as she brushes past Noor upon her entry into the office.

* * *

**April 2009**

**Gwen**

“How are you still alive?” Jack asks the Duchess as they settle into one of the parlors. Mahajan excuses himself, scurrying off to fetch tea and other refreshments. His question is asked completely conversationally, but Gwen, one of the few people who knows Jack best on this planet, can recognize the slight strain of his smile and the tightness to his eyes and jaw. He’s shocked, bewildered even, to find his old lover alive. “I mean...how do you still look so youthful?”

Jack and Ianto occupy the same small loveseat, bodies pressed up against each other, which Gwen knows they’re just relishing as an excuse for intimacy. She herself is seated to Jack’s left in an armchair, leaving the Duchess - who she has learned is actually named Eleanor - in an opulently-embroidered armchair facing them.

“Good breeding,” says Eleanor, lifting her head haughtily, “and a good beauty regimen.” And Gwen already has the good sense to know that she’s going to hate the guts of this woman. “What about you, Captain? I know that immortal means you are liberated from the claws of time,” - and here, Gwen grits her teeth, and she can practically feel Ianto bristling even if he masks it well - “but there is nary a wrinkle on your fine face.”

“Same as you,” replies Jack, grinning. “A good beauty regimen. Well, that and lots of exercise.”

“Well.” Eleanor sniffs. “You look quite well for your age.”

“As do you.”

“Still in Cardiff, then?” the Duchess asks, expression souring when Jack nods. “Goodness, what even is there in that drab cesspit of a city? Goat farmers? More villagers? It certainly is no London.”

Gwen feels a sharp flare of anger, but she shoves it down. Luckily, Ianto is already speaking cordially, but the tension in his shoulders belies his defensiveness for the city that is their home.

“Cardiff bears a rift in space and time, Your Grace,” he tells her, voice and general demeanor formal. Of course. It is Ianto; he carries himself as if any moment he expects to encounter the Queen. “Torchwood Three remains in Cardiff to tend to this Rift and prevent further leakage from affecting the rest of the United Kingdom.”

“And there is no way for Torchwood London to tend to this Rift remotely?” Eleanor asks. Judging from her indulgent tone, she already knows all of this. “Surely, with the state of technology nowadays…”

Ianto has gone slightly pale, and Gwen wants to reach over to rest a comforting hand on his, but she knows she’d only draw further disdain from the Duchess. Jack shifts discreetly on the loveseat, pressing Ianto further into his side.

“Actually, Nellie,” Jack begins, “the London branch no longer exists. They fell in an unfortunate battle several years ago. Now it is only Cardiff that remains.” He gestures sheepishly around the club. “Well, Cardiff and India.”

At the sudden news about London, the Duchess’s blue eyes widen, lips parting in what appears to be genuine shock. “Oh, pardon me,” she says. “That is positively dreadful news.” Before she can continue, Mahajan returns, bustling into the parlor with a heavy tray laden with empty glasses, almost reminiscent of Ianto in the Hub. “Ah, Mahajan! Perfectly splendid. Whisky-sodas all around to take the heat off the day.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Mahajan replies, setting the tray down on a side table before slipping to the back of a parlor where a drinks cart rests. The sound of faint clinking and rustling can be heard.

“Erm...would you mind if I had a coffee?” Ianto questions.

The Duchess eyes him strangely. “Very much so.” She turns to Mahajan. “Mahajan, pour him a lemonade.”

Ianto hides his scowl well as Mahajan pours out the drinks.

“That’s for you, Jack,” the Duchess tells him as Mahajan places a drink on the side table to Jack’s right. “Straight up, if I remember correctly. Now, Gwen dear?”

Gwen hums as she lifts her gaze to the Duchess. “Yes?” she asks politely.

“Whisky-soda, Sazarac, or Mahajan does a jolly good G and T?” the Duchess asks her, but Gwen shakes her head.

“Ah. There’s no need.”

“Very good, memsahib.” Mahajan lifts his tray with the empty glass meant for Gwen still on it and leaves the parlor. In the silence after, the Duchess stares at Gwen and Ianto before her gaze travels to Jack, becoming dark and hazy. Gwen tilts her head consideringly, trying to determine if that is how Ianto looks every time he gazes upon Jack before deciding it isn’t.

“It is quite wonderful of you, Jack, to employ the local Welsh under you,” Eleanor says, “but do their charming little accents not become difficult for you to decipher at times?”

Hands curling into fists at her side, Gwen forces her reflexive anger down. She knows that people’s provocations at her being Welsh is one of her hair triggers as well as she knows that it was a reaction Ianto faced frequently in London. There is no use in either of them flaring out; they must remain calm and diplomatic to attempt to glean information about the energy signatures or the disappearances from the Duchess.

Jack smiles disarmingly. “Actually, Nellie, I quite enjoy the Welsh accent,” he replies before getting straight to business. “Now, there is a reason we are here. People are disappearing. There’s a powerful energy signature, and we’ve tracked it to India, to here. I think there’s something very alien and very dangerous in this building.”

When the Duchess barely blinks, Gwen adds, “We were detecting spikes from Cardiff. From the record, it looks like hundreds of people have vanished without trace, at least over the last few months.”

“That’s just Delhi, my dear,” Eleanor tells her, tone only slightly condescending, to her credit. She sips politely from her glass before setting it aside. Neither Jack, Ianto, or Gwen have touched their drinks. “The human tide. A bad harvest, and people wash in from the villages. But a good rain rinses them all out again. You mark my words.”

Gwen’s eyes narrow. Ianto’s lips curl into a dangerously plain expression which she knows means that he is losing patience.

“I believe that this is all too coincidental than to be anything other than alien involvement,” he says, and Jack nods his agreement. The Duchess appears to suppress an eye twitch, crossing her legs at the ankles.

“This used to be a Torchwood base,” Gwen says quickly. “So is there some alien technology here that could be causing it? It’s got to be _something._ I mean, you’re at least a hundred, and you look forty.” A beat. “A youthful forty.”

Eleanor laughs. “You’re too kind, but a lady never reveals her age. No, Gwen dear, there couldn’t be anything, really. Because eight years ago, Captain Jack Harkness took the lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was only obeying orders,” murmurs Jack.

“Since when have you obeyed orders?” Ianto asks him, humor playing in his voice, but Jack hushes him playfully. This is all watched critically by the Duchess.

“Torchwood India was founded by Queen Victoria, to gather up all the alien artifacts in the Raj,” Eleanor says finally. “From the Yeti spheres of the Himalaya to a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Kathmandu. A magnificent storehouse and research outpost. And then, one sad day in 1924, Captain Jack Harkness brought official greetings and an armful of dance records. Several months later, he had all the lovely alien plunder packed in tea chests and sent back to the mother country.” Briefly, her lips pull into a faint scowl before they return to their serene smile. “He took everything away. We were left only with our memories and a copy of _Yes, We Have No Bananas._ ”

For the longest moment, neither Ianto, Jack, nor Gwen can find anything to say.

Eventually, Gwen replies, “Something here must be causing this, something Jack missed. We should look around, just to be sure.”

The Duchess clucks her tongue. “Well, you won’t find a bean. Captain H took everything that wasn’t nailed down. But how exciting.” Mahajan returns to the room, and she straightens up. “Ah, Mahajan, there you are. We must lead our guests on a tour of the grounds. They’ve come all this way searching for an alien artifact.”

“Wonderful, Your Grace,” Mahajan replies. Gwen cannot tell at all if he’s being sarcastic. She thinks she prefers Ianto acting as a butler instead.

They all rise, and the Duchess makes as if to lead them from the parlor before she briefly turns back. “We must remember to try and keep Miss Cooper out of sight. Women are not allowed at the club, certainly not women wearing...trousers. We don’t want to startle the colonels now, do we?”

Gwen grits her teeth. She really thinks she hates this woman.

* * *

**March 1923**

**Noor**

“ _How much more of this do we have to endure?_ ” Noor whispers to Ambika as quietly as she can in Hindi. “ _And why do I feel like someone’s royal goat being shown off?_ ”

Ambika sighs, the slump of her shoulders not as obvious in the bright, gorgeous silk of her new _sari_. “ _It’s always like this,_ ” she says. “ _The Duke brings us out as his staff - not that he mentions how or where we’re his staff,_ ” - and here her lovely dark eyes flare with suppressed anger - “ _attempts to parade us around but really just places us in prime position for our humiliation._ ”

Briefly, Noor notes that Ambika’s words sound slightly bitter. That, or she has been spending much time listening to Laksh’s rants. Noor certainly has, and Laksh’s rants, made in the privacy of their boardroom, only increased in frequency after the Duke’s announcement about the party.

It’s an elaborate affair, lights sparkling everywhere with colorful tassels and velvet ribbons and candles in woven baskets and draping tablecloths. A crowd of well-dressed guests - mostly men but with the occasional wife on their arm - mingle about, drinks in hand, chatting and making jokes. Many gesture towards the isolated corner where Ambika and Noor are pressed against the wall, Laksh positioned before them. Noor will occasionally draw a curious look and will duck her head, cheeks burning, pulling her _dupatta_ lower. She hates this, hates feeling like she’s on display, hates the gawking stares that her _kurta_ and _gharara_ draw.

 _Allah._ These _firangi_ have honestly been in Hindustan for many years now. Why do they look as Noor, even if she is a young Muslim woman, like she doesn’t belong here? If these guests step outside, they will see many who resemble her and Ambika and Laksh and barely any who resemble themselves.

Further away, Edward is cavorting with a group of men with thick hair, all dressed similarly to him, a well-cut suit and shiny Oxfords. Finally, he doesn’t seem the odd man out, even if the slant of his nose and the slight shadow of his skin comparative to his peers draws odd looks. Even among other white men, anyone with Hindustani blood doesn’t belong.

“Pardon me,” says a level, youthful voice as a man slightly older than Noor peers at Laksh. He is holding an empty glass, which must have contained whisky or some other liquor. He extends it towards Laskh. “My drink is empty. Would you mind fetching me a fresh one?”

Ambika’s grip tightens around Noor’s hand as they press further into the wall. Laksh’s eyes flare with anger.

In crisp English, he slowly tells the man, “I am not serving staff.” The man’s eyes are still fogged with confusion as he glances towards the suit jacket and dhoti Laksh is wearing. “I am a physicist who works under the Duke. I cannot fetch you a fresh drink. Please, do it yourself.”

The man, still not entirely understanding, purses his lips, looking about ready to argue, but he pulls back the glass and strides away. Noor eyes a glance towards Laksh, noting that he bites his lips, sighing.

Finally, after some angry murmuring in Tamil, Laksh says in Hindi, “ _Bloody Britisher. He’s so accustomed to Hindustanis serving him that he cannot fathom a Hindustani present in_ Hindustan _not being someone meant to serve him._ ” He rubs his furrowed brow. “ _I have a doctorate in physics from the University of Madras, yet I still work for a Britisher._ ” He lifts his gaze back to Noor and Ambika, telling them, “ _I need some air._ ”

He strolls away from the corner, leaving Noor and Ambika exposed to the probing gazes of the guests. Despite no difference in the amount of people looking their way, Noor ducks her head, feeling more and more as if she’s a creature being examined through a glass wall, an animal at an exhibit.

Ambika strokes her thumb gently along Noor’s inner wrist. “ _Shall we escape as well?_ ” she asks Noor, and Noor nods. She follows Ambika out of the parlor, dodging politely around guests who eye the way Ambika’s _pallu_ drifts slightly after her or the folds of Noor’s _gharara_. Noor barely glances up as she walks, mostly intent on following Ambika’s embroidered _juttis_ , focusing on the soft skin of Ambika’s palm brushing against hers, so she’s startled when she ends up in a dark confined space.

When she glances up, Ambika is just pulling a door shut on them. Then there’s a brief moment of total darkness and comfortable silence - silence is always comfortable with Ambika; there is never the odd fumble to search for more conversational topics unlike with Noor’s other friends - before there is a faint creaking sound. Dull brightness floods the room - revealed to be a closet of some kind - as Ambika drops her hand from the light bulb chain she’d just tugged on.

“ _Where are we?_ ” Noor asks, bewildered, and Ambika offers a gentle smile. Noor ignores the way her heart flutters.

“ _A storage closet I know of,_ ” replies Ambika with a slight shrug of her shoulders that she makes look elegant. “ _Mahajan doesn’t come here, that weasel of a man._ ”

This startles a laugh out of Noor, and she admits, “ _When I first saw him, I thought he resembled a squirrel._ ”

Ambika’s smile grows. “ _It’s quite apt considering how he keeps nosing up to the Duchess._ ”

“ _She doesn’t like us very much,_ ” Noor notes, but by now, after spending almost a year at Torchwood India, she knows that she is essentially stating a fact. “ _Why does she remain here? She could return to England._ ”

“ _I think she dislikes this country,_ ” Ambika says, “ _and all of us._ ” Then she looks briefly considerate. “ _Actually, I do believe that there is something to be admired about her. Women in no countries are placed in power whereas men are handed power on a silver platter, but she comes here, where she has some degree of power at Torchwood India. It’s quite very strategic._ ” She wrinkles her shapely nose. “ _But also, the woman is dangerous. I would not trust her as far as I could reach._ ”

They slip back into silence, and Noor bites her lip, searching for something to say. So lost in thought she is, she doesn’t notice how Ambika’s eyes darken. Then when Noor’s lips part to speak, suddenly, there is a warm mouth on hers, a gentle hand cradling her cheek, and Noor has never felt this kind of electricity before as it sparks through her body. She makes a soft noise, but it is swallowed by Ambika’s lips.

It’s as if she has been transported to Jannah, and she would like to stay here for-

A shrill scream splits the still silence of Noor and Ambika’s little haven, and with an abrupt sigh, Ambika steps back, eyes wide, though whether from the kiss or the sudden interruption, Noor cannot tell. They share a brief glance, dark eyes clashing against each other, and Noor shudders before they both race from the closet.

In the main parlor, the Duke has collapsed to the floor, a small ring of onlookers half-shielding him from view, Edward and the Duchess on their knees beside him. Edward is pressing two fingers to the Duke’s inner wrist, and then he glances up, eyes horrified, face pale.

“I can barely feel a pulse,” he announces. “The Duke is seriously unwell.”

* * *

**April 2009**

**Gwen**

The Royal Connaught Club, despite the narrow face of its entrance, actually ends in a grand veranda with colorful flowered vines that spiral around the marble columns and wicker chairs and tables overlooking a perfectly-maintained lush lawn. Large peepal and neem trees, which Gwen only recognizes from her prior research, border the grounds, casting wide swathes of shade as Mahajan, the Duchess, and Torchwood Three trail under them.

Gwen is gazing around in wide-eyed awe, entirely sure that the grounds are way too wide and sprawling for how the club is wedged between two shop fronts on a Delhi street. Some sort of alien technology she supposes, _but what?_ What could it be? The Duchess clearly still has some sort of device left; Gwen knows Jack and is sure he cleared out everything he could, but that doesn’t mean the Duchess couldn’t have palmed something away.

“And this is the garden,” Mahajan says as he stops below a particularly large leafy tree laden with green mangos. “And as you can see, gentlemen, memsahib, there has been nothing unusual thus far. Has there?” He eyes Ianto, who is clutching the scanner and moving it this way and that.

Ianto hums, barely lifting his gaze from the screen, reminding Gwen of Tosh and the way she used to be so securely attached to her tech and gadgets. She feels a stab of grief, but Ianto’s already speaking. “I can’t actually get an exact trace on the energy signature,” he tells Jack, who tilts his head consideringly.

“What else would you need?” Jack asks him quietly, but Ianto shrugs. “To get a proper trace, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” replies Ianto, expression slightly bewildered. “This isn’t necessarily my area of expertise.”

She casts another glance around the veranda and garden, eyeing the vines and flowers and trees. They seem in unusually good health for plants. Now Gwen doesn’t know a lot about botany or plants, but there is something off about the club’s garden.

“Shall we split up?” the Duchess suggests abruptly, and all three pairs of eyes of Torchwood Three travel to her in surprise. She is smiling cordially, her cream-colored dress matched with the old-fashioned sun hat she donned before their tour. “We would cover a lot more ground that way.”

Jack turns to Ianto, missing the way the Duchess’s eyes flash with irritation. “Do we have another scanner?” he asks, and Ianto immediately fumbles for his backpack before tossing the extra scanner to Jack who catches it with the perfect ease and synchronicity he and Ianto always share.

“Alright,” Jack tells the Duchess. “We’re good. How do you wanna do this? Ianto and I could go with Maha-”

“Actually,” the Duchess cuts in neatly, voice firm and brokering no arguments, “I thought that you could accompany me, Captain H. We could use the time to further catch up. Your…” She eyes Gwen and Ianto disdainfully again. “Your friends can accompany Mahajan.”

Gwen, Ianto, and Jack exchange glances, and it takes a split-second for them to decide.

“Sounds good,” Gwen chirps with false cheer, and then she tugs an arm around Ianto’s and pulls him to follow Mahajan.

* * *

**April 1923**

**Noor**

Noor, Ambika, and Laksh hover around the entrance of the medical bay as Edward tends to the barely-conscious Duke, using rarely-employed alien devices to check his pulse and monitor body temperature. The Duchess is slumped over in an embroidered armchair that has been dragged from her fainting room to a corner of the medical bay, her expression pinched, but she doesn’t look like a woman who could soon become a widow.

“What could happen?” Noor leans in to ask Ambika. The Duchess is far away enough that she could whisper in Hindi, but Noor is too fearful of her whisper carrying in the silence. “What _will_ happen to the Duke? Are there any cures, any treatments, for his sickness?”

Laksh shakes his head sternly, face pale, before Ambika even has a chance to reply. “I doubt so,” he says roughly. “It is undoubtedly an alien disease. We know next to nothing about the plant that originated the Duke’s sickness. We cannot even study any longer.” He sighs.

He is right. They had burnt the plant the moment they could; the Duke had personally supervised Laksh doing so, with the rest of the team watching from outside the greenhouse. If anything, if the plant could have helped in brewing up a cure for the Duke’s condition, the Duke had played a personal hand in sealing his fate.

“ _Allah,_ ” murmurs Noor, bowing her head. She cares not too greatly for the Duke, but he is still a man she knows, still her employer, and her parents have taught her better than to wish death upon someone, even a _firangi._ She begins to recite prayers under her breath, drawing Ambika’s gase. Discreetly, the other woman slips her hand close to Noor’s, brushing their fingers together. Under the safety of the long drape of Ambika’s _sari_ and the flow of Noor’s _kurta_ , they clutch hands together tightly.

“Everything will be fine,” Ambika tells her reassuringly. “God will ensure so.”

Almost as if Allah has been listening, Edward glances up suddenly, eyes wide with shock. His hands have gone lax around the device he was clutching, and his face is pale enough that he resembles a ghost.

“There is no heartbeat.” Clearing his throat with a cough, he repeats more loudly, “There is no heartbeat, Your Grace.” The Duchess’s head whips up with shock, but none of those present need Edward’s next few words as confirmation: “The Duke is dead.”

Laksh whispers something in faint Tamil, the remaining color quickly draining from his face. Ambika’s grip around Noor’s hand tightens, and they step closer together. Noor can see that a minute trembling has begun in Edward’s hands. The Duchess rises from her armchair and approaches the slab where the Duke lies.

Where his body lies, Noor realizes.

“Are you sure?” the Duchess asks, and Edward nods. Her eyes widen, and she turns sharply to the three gathered at the entrance, nose wrinkling. “ _Leave us._ ”

Too shocked to even argue, Ambika, Noor, and Laksh retreat further away, watching distantly as the Duchess and Edward converse. Edward nods again, drawing up a white sheet pulled from a dusty cupboard over the Duke’s body.

After several minutes, the Duchess returns to address the three of them, Edward following up behind. “The Duke is dead,” she confirms, face paler than the marble that lines the floors and columns upstairs. Her painted lips are pressed together tightly. “This means…” She swallows appropriately, glancing aside, briefly the perfect picture of a suddenly-grieving widow. A lock of blond has slipped free of its braided coil, quivering as the Duchess slowly turns back to face them. “This means that now I will be assuming control of Torchwood India.”

But her tone meets not her expression, just the tiniest edge of glee hidden to her faltering, choked words.

Noor exchanges a grim glance with Ambika. Laksh’s eyes are blank. Behind the Duchess, even Edward is frowning.

This is not good, Noor knows, to have the Duchess now in charge, but only Allah knows what this truly spells for any of them.

* * *

** PART TWO **

**May 1923**

**Laksh**

“Noor, can you get us lunch?” asks Ambika, not looking up from where she’s doing calculations. Laksh, who is sitting next to her, nods eagerly at Noor.

“Of course,” she says. “Shall I get it from the usual place?”

The usual place is an elderly woman, who has a standing agreement with them. She makes them lunch and dinner, and pretends Torchwood India doesn’t exist, and they pay her more money than she would have made anywhere else. It’s far more appetizing than the English food made in the club, and Laksh is particularly fond of her _aloo parathas_.

He misses his favorite breakfast, _kuzhi paniyaram_ , and the tangy taste of _rasam_ rice in the afternoon, but unfortunately, there is nowhere in Shahjahanabad where he can get proper Tamil food, and he doesn’t have the time or facilities to try and attempt it himself. Any traditional food, regardless of where it’s from, is better than the food made at the club, anyway.

“Mmm,” Ambika assents, and taps him on the arm impatiently, trying to get his attention. She points down at her paper, and he scans it, double checking if they’ve written the values down properly.

“Edward, would you like me to get some for you as well?” Noor asks. Edward shakes his head absently and goes back to working on whatever he’s fiddling with. Ambika rolls her eyes at Laksh, and he smirks back.

He doesn’t understand why Noor bothers to keep asking Edward every day when his answer is always no. Edward eats at the club - he always eats at the club because he hates any reminder of being half-Hindustani. From his clothes, to his stupid accent that Laksh swears is getting more “proper” every day, to the way he looks at Laksh whenever he speaks anything other than English, Edward is distainful of anything that makes him seem less British. Anything that might give away his heritage.

He and Ambika have often wondered why Edward even returned to India. He clearly doesn’t think of himself as one of them, and there are better jobs than Torchwood back in Britain. Even if he wanted to work for Torchwood, branches still exist there. Torchwood India is just an outpost - a small archiving base that no one really bothers to pay much attention to.

Noor returns a few minutes later, an aluminum tiffin carrier and a small pot in her hands. Ambika caps her pen, and they follow Noor downstairs to their little room. Inside is a table, a couple chairs, and a place where the Duchess will never bother to visit. In that room, they can relax, not have to worry about their actions possibly displeasing the Duchess. Laksh picks up a metal plate and a tumbler from the stack on the table and sinks into his chair, ready to relax for an hour or so.

Noor splits the tiffin carrier open to reveal separate containers of rice, _tarka dhal_ , _mutton kofta_ , and _aloo bhindi_. The bottom container is full of _chapatis_. Laksh avoids the mutton, helping himself to a few scoops of rice and _daal_ , spooning in some _aloo bhindi_ on the side and taking a _chapati_. Ambika and Noor have no reason to abstain from mutton, so they help themselves to the open containers.

Laksh opens the small pot beside the tiffin container and finds, to his delight, _masala chaash_. It’s his favorite drink during the day - the cool _chaash_ is so refreshing under the hot Delhi sun.

They sit silently for a while, nothing but the sounds of chewing filling the room. It’s always the nicest part of the day, a time where they are free of any disdainful looks or disrespectful comments. He enjoys the work he does for Torchwood, but the atmosphere is exceptionally toxic.

“ _Why do you keep asking Edward if he wants our food, Noor?_ ” he asks in Hindi. “ _I’m sure you’ve noticed that he refuses every time?_ ”

“ _It’s only polite,_ ” she responds, also in Hindi. Down here, they rarely bother speaking English.

“ _He’s not polite,_ ” Ambika mutters. Noor gives her a stern look, to which Ambika raises her hands in confusion. “ _What? He’s not - not by any means!_ ”

“ _It’s still rude to be discussing him like this,_ ” Noor continues. “ _He’s not even here to defend himself._ ”

“ _He doesn’t need to defend himself - the bastard doesn’t even respond to you properly. Why are you nice to him?_ ” Laksh asks, befuddled.

“ _Laksh! He’s still our colleague!_ ” says Noor, looking offended. “ _I want to treat him like I treat you, regardless of how he talks to me._ ”

“ _I guess that’s admirable, I suppose._ ” Ambika rolls her eyes. “ _You can talk to him however you want, Noor; we just don’t want to deal with his nonsense anymore._ ”

They are silent for a while before Laksh pops his head up again. “ _Did you hear that the Swaraj Party won forty seats in the Central Legislative Assembly?_ ”

“ _Oh,_ ” Ambika says. “ _Do you think anything will happen?_ ”

“ _Motilal Nehru says they want to obstruct British law from inside the government. You remember what happened at Chauri Chaura. It halted the non-co-operation movement almost immediately. Maybe this will be better,_ ” says Laksh.

“ _But they only won forty seats,_ ” says Noor. “ _There are one hundred and forty-five seats. Do you think they can stop anything?_ ”

“ _Noor is right; they don’t have a majority,_ ” Ambika says despairingly. “ _I don’t know how much they can do._ ”

“ _I think it’s better than doing nothing,_ ” Laksh proclaims. “ _The more we wait, the more we let things go, the more they commit atrocities. I still remember what I was doing when I found out what they did in Amritsar four years ago. Four hundred dead, more than a thousand injured - such mass murderers aren't worthy of governing any country!_ ”

“ _A fan of Tagore’s work?_ ” Noor asks, smiling slightly. “ _I recognize the quote: such mass murderers aren't worthy of giving any title to anyone._ "

“ _I am._ ” Laksh smiles back. “ _I read more than just Bharathiyar and physics papers, you know._ ”

“ _Laksh’s two loves are poetry and physics. Give him one or the other and he’ll be entertained for days_ ,” Ambika jokes. “ _He’s like a child with a toy._ ”

“ _Hey!_ ” Laksh complains, waving a hand at her. “ _I don’t hear anyone talking about your fascination with collecting earrings?_ ”

“ _That’s because collecting earrings is a hobby, not an obsession._ ”

Laksh rolls his eyes fondly, taking a deep sip of his _chaash_. Draining it, he stands up and gathers his plate and cup to place in the disk rack, so they can be cleaned.

“ _Come on, Ambika,_ ” Laksh says. “ _If we spend too much time here, then that horrid woman is going to come looking for us. And we have to finish calculating those values before the end of the day._ ”

“ _Oh, fine,_ ” she grumbles. “ _Noor?_ ”

“ _Coming, coming,_ ” Noor says, and reaches out for Ambika’s hand. They walk upstairs, deposit their dishes in the rack, and arrive back at the main hall.

Edward is sitting at his desk alone, reading a newspaper and forking some brown thing into his mouth. It looks cold and unappetizing even from across the room. For a moment, Laksh feels guilty for not inviting him, for making him eat his bland food alone with no company.

Then he remembers that Edward does not care about him, nor Ambika and Noor, and he feels less bad.

He sits down next to Ambika and is about to begin working when, surprisingly, the Duchess walks in. She stares contemptuously at them as they rise to greet her.

“I have an announcement,” she declares. “I have just received word that we will be entertaining a guest. Captain Jack Harkness from Torchwood Cardiff will be arriving in a few months.”

Then she turns on her heel and exits the room. Laksh looks to Ambika, who is wearing the same puzzled expression on her face. There had never been a guest from the other branches, not ever since Laksh had started working here. Who is Captain Jack Harkness and why is he coming to India?

And more importantly, what does this mean for the future of the branch?

* * *

**April 2009**

**Gwen**

“Mind your heads on the way down. This is the basement level, where we used to keep the alien archive, back when the branch was still running,” says Mahajan, leading them down below into an empty cavernous space.

“It's enormous,” Ianto says, craning his head all around to take in the all-encompassing scale. Gwen supposed that back when Torchwood India was still functioning, the space must have been full, gleaming with artifacts from other worlds. Now the cavern is empty, shelves bare and floors dusty.

“What do you know about Torchwood India's alien artifacts?” asks Gwen, hoping to get any kind of information about the space. Mahajan shakes his head, leading them through the empty space.

“It’s not really my area of expertise, I'm afraid. All I know is that there used to be heaps of alien objects down here; now, it's just the Amontillado.”

Gwen looks suspiciously at him, throwing a glance over at Ianto, but he’s engrossed in the scanner he’s holding out in front of him. She pulls out her scanner and extends it similarly, moving it all around. They each walk to one side of the immense room, hoping to scan any kind of radiation. As they walk deeper into the space, Gwen’s scanner starts emitting a small buzzing noise, and Ianto turns to her, looking expectantly.

“I'm only picking up on low levels of Nelson seepage, nothing to match any previous energy spikes,” she says, regretfully. “What about you, Ianto?”

“Nothing over here,” he replies. Gwen sighs, setting her scanner back to the starting setting. She thought the place where the artifacts used to be stored might have contained the radiation. The dust swirls through the empty room, tickling her nose, and she sniffs. It looked like the archives hadn’t been touched - or cleaned - in quite a while.

“There you are, clean as a whistle,” says Mahajan, smiling widely. Gwen turns to him, still a little suspicious.

“Over the last few months, thousands of people have disappeared from this city. You must have heard something,” she says slowly.

Mahajan shakes his head, still smiling. “We don't concern ourselves with the locals here.” Gwen looks at him incredulously.

“Hundreds of people have been going missing, and you haven’t noticed a thing?”

“You sound overexcited, memsahib. Perhaps a lie-down would calm your nerves?” he condescends. Gwen glares at him, ready to give him a piece of her mind.

“A lie down? You want me to-”

“-can we get on, please?” Ianto interrupts, giving her a sharp look. She frowns back but bites her tongue. As much as Mahajan irritates her, they have to keep scanning the place.

“Certainly, sir. The kitchens are up this way,” says Mahajan, and leads them back up the stairs. Before they reach the landing to exit where they entered from, they see a small door, and Gwen stops.

“What’s in here?” she asks.

“An old maid’s closet,” he replies immediately. “It’s certainly not big enough for any of us to fit inside. The kitchens are up this way.”

He points up to the landing. Ianto nods and continues walking, but Gwen gives the door a last look. Something about the way that Mahajan had talked about it gave her an odd feeling.

“Come on,” calls Ianto, and she hurries up to catch them. Mahajan strides past the grounds of the and enters the Royal Connaught Club. He pushes through several doors until they finally reach the kitchens inside.

“I don't know if you'll find any aliens in the kitchens, but you're welcome to hunt around. Over there is a genuine tandoor. And all our knives are Swiss steel.” Mahajan says, sounding exceptionally excited.

“We're not looking for alien cutlery,” Ianto says, exasperated. He holds the scanner in front of him, trying to fiddle with its settings.

“Oh, but I thought you wanted to search the premises?” Mahajan asks politely. Gwen can’t detect a hint of sarcasm in there, but she’s almost positive that he’s being sardonic.

“This is just a guided tour, isn't it? Why do I get the feeling we're being kept out of harm's way?” asks Gwen, pointedly.

“Not at all, memsahib,” Mahajan laughs, stopping at the edge of the kitchen threshold.

“Gwen, I insist.” She laughs humorlessly, voice strained as she says, “Where shouldn't we be looking?”

“I'm doing my best, memsahib,” says Mahajan. “You asked to explore the club.”

“Mmhm.” Gwen frowns, face tight as she levels him with a stare.

“And we've covered most of the basement. If you wish, we can head up to the retiring-room now. I'm afraid I can't let you into the main corridor.”

“Because I'm a woman?”

“Yes, memsahib.”

“What about the gardens?” Ianto cuts in, trapping Gwen’s retort on her tongue. “Can we see them?”

“Why of course,” Mahajan says, looking more put together. “Just this way.”

He leads them through a back gate to a beautiful garden. They walk over a neatly pressed dirt path, elegantly fringed with rose bushes. The lawn is elegantly manicured, and the plants seem to glow with an otherworldly health. Gwen gapes at the sight, scanning everything in sight in case anything is alien in origin. Ianto takes the other side, scanner wheezing and pulsating as he waves it around.

“Anything?” Gwen asks hopefully.

“Picking up the same low-levels of Nelson seepage out here,” Ianto replies, before turning to Mahajan. “That lawn's amazing. Looks like you cut it with nail scissors.”

“We do. The Duchess likes to call this her perfect tiny little corner of the Empire. Now, why not forget about your scanning, and enjoy the sunshine?” Mahajan replies.

“Is the weather always this good?” Gwen asks.

“Always,” he replies. “Ever since I started working here.”

“Really? And how long has that been?”

“Well, since you ask, for over a hundred years,” Mahajan smiles. “The path leads this way; you can scan more here.”

“What?” Gwen exclaims.

“It’s not just the Duchess? You haven’t aged either?” Ianto asks, incredulously. Mahajan smiles and nods his head. “What about the rest of the employees? They must have had more than you two?”

“Oh, there were others, but they were let go. After all, a branch doesn’t need employees when it’s shut down.” Mahajan replies.

“What did they do?” asks Ianto. “What were their jobs?”

“Oh, I’m not sure,” Mahajan says. “I was never actually that involved in any official Torchwood business. I don’t know much about their work. But I can take you to the parlor again - if you’re done here?”

Gwen glances at Ianto nervously. If they wanted to find anything, they needed to explore on their own. And Gwen wanted to start at the place she had the most suspicions about.

The door on the basement landing.

* * *

**July 1923**

**Laksh**

Laksh twirls his pen around idly as he tries, and fails, to focus on his work. It’s not particularly hard, he’s just solving a couple equations to run a materials test on an artifact - something he’s done plenty of times before. It’s just horrifically dull to do by himself and far easier with two people.

The artifact he’s studying is fascinating. It’s made of a material that is still solid, but whose molecules have a set of unique and highly baffling properties. He can pick it up - wearing gloves to protect his hands, of course, but it didn’t behave like any solid on Earth. Torchwood One had sent it over, packaged firmly, and ordered them to study it.

However, before he can run any tests on the artifact, he has to run through a few calculations and input several values into the testing apparatus.

Usually he does the materials test with Ambika because she’s far better at working the machines than he is - he’s studied as a physicist, not a technician. But, as he scans around the main hall, Ambika is nowhere to be found.

“Noor?” he calls out, looking to see if she knows where Ambika has made herself scarce to. Curiously, she’s gone missing too. He walks to the greenhouse to see if one of them might be in there, but that too is empty. He reminds himself to take samples of the alien plants before running the tests - he needs to zero the testing apparatus, and he hasn’t done it since the last time he used it, four weeks ago. He checks the parlor quickly, not bothering to enter the Duchess’s personal room or her office. Neither one would willingly spend time up there.

Jogging up the stairs, he walks down the long hallway that runs perpendicular to their bedrooms. Laksh raps quickly on Ambika and Noor’s doors, calling out for them. Usually, no one is upstairs during the daytime, but it can’t hurt to check. No one answers, and he concludes that they aren’t in their rooms.

Finally, he swallows up his pride and goes up to Edward, who is at the alcoved Medical Bay. Edward’s back faces him, and he bites away his disgust at having to ask him for help. Laksh clears his throat.

“Edward,” he says curtly.

“Yes?” Edward asks, turning around slowly.

“Have you seen Noor or Ambika?”

“No,” he responds absently, and he turns back around, not even bothering to offer to help or ask why.

“ _Arsehole_ ,” Laksh curses under his breath in Tamil. Not that he expected more from Edward, but he can’t stop the flash of annoyance he feels at him. He leaves the Medical Bay quickly, wracking his brain to think of where they might be. There’s only two places he hasn’t checked yet: the upper basement and the archives.

Laksh walks down the stairs, descending to the upper basement, above the archives. Walking along the hallway, he peers into the extravagantly decorated parlor briefly, before continuing on. Neither one of them is inside there. Scratching his head, he wonders if they’ve simply left the building. It’s far more likely than them being in the archives - Ambika never goes there alone, and Noor has only visited it once.

That’s when he hears a low mumble, almost like a person’s voice. His eyes shoot up, head darting in the direction of the noise, when he hears it again. It wasn’t likely to be a robber, but the possibility was never zero. He walks towards the noise, then, when realising he’s not armed, picks up a broom from a side cabinet.

Holding it out in front of him like a weapon, stick side up, he softly treads to where the noise came from, a small closet. Laksh gathers his nerves, then throws open the door and holds up the broom threateningly. However, the sight that greets him is not a robber.

Instead, he sees Ambika and Noor pressed up against each other. Noor is cupping Ambika’s face tenderly, and right before they realized that Laksh was standing there, they had clearly been having an intimate moment together.

All three of their eyes go wide, and Noor steps quickly away, blushing furiously. Both women look scared out of their minds, and all three of them seem frozen to the spot. For a few seconds, no one moves. They simply stand there, mouths agape and dumbfounded to see the other.

Then, finally, Laksh comes to his senses and drops the broom, exiting the closet and running back up the stairs. He walks briskly into the Main Hall, dropping down onto his desk, and picks up the pen, determined to look like he’s never left his station.

* * *

**April 2009**

**Jack**

Jack holds Eleanor’s hand as they walk out the gate and into one of the many outer gardens. As usual, the lawn is elegantly manicured, the path is made of gleaming cobblestone, and he can smell the heady scent of jasmine flowers all around them. It’s a beautiful sight, one that he enjoyed the last time he was here.

But he was sure it was the last time he would be able to see it.

“Eleanor, how come you don't look a day older than when I left? I thought I'd closed this place down and that you'd be-” he cuts off and she laughs sharply, features morphing into a slightly crooked smile.

“-dead?” she asks. He nods, raising his eyebrows, and she laughs again. “Like good manners and toothache, we persist. Torchwood India became what we'd always pretended to be - just a nice little private club on a nice little street. Our one rule was that nothing would change.”

“Including you?”

“Oh, I've been lucky. The whole building is soaked with leftover radiation from the alien loot. It's kept me alive. It's not all good, of course. The woodworm are the jolly devil,” she smiles, leading him down the path. He gaped at her.

“You've been kept going by residual radiation. You expect me to believe that?” Jack asked, looking at her in disbelief. She shrugged, giving him a wide smile - one that screams innocence. However he’s not quite sure he believes her.

“Believe what you like, Captain H. Have I ever lied to you?” she asks. “Au contraire. Look at us both, just as we were over eighty years ago.”

“Eleanor-” he begins, when she cuts him off.

“Those same blue eyes,” she laughs. “I never thought I'd see you again.”

“Neither did I. We had quite a time though, didn't we?” Jack says, smiling at her politely.

“Oh yes, 1924, it was a very good year. Well, until you left.” she finished, bitterly. Jack cringes a little.

“I sometimes wish I could have stayed,” he lies. “But anyway, what have you heard about the missing people? I mean-”

“-Oh sometimes I wish that too. We'd have had an absolute ball. It's been ever so quiet since you went,” says Eleanor, shaking her head.

“Yeah, I bet. So about those missing people?” he prods.

“Yes, such a tragedy. But you must tell me, where have you been all this time? Surely not Torchwood, erm..” she trails off.

“Cardiff,” he supplies.

“Cardiff, yes of course. And, erm, a lot of aliens must choose that as their first port of call?” she asks, a little sarcastically.

“Oh, you'd be surprised. We've got a Rift, remember?” he asks, trying to urge the conversation along. Eleanor lets out a small reedy burst of laugh, almost forced.

“Oh, if only we had one of those. I'm positively jealous,” she says, eyes widening as she says the last word. Jack cocks an eyebrow at her.

“Of the Rift?”

“Perhaps,” she says, a little cloyingly. “Oh, Jack, do you remember, this is where we had tea together, out here, every afternoon.”

She drags him over to a little table, and he recognizes it. The fine lace tablecloth that adorned it is still there, just as white as the day he first saw it. He looks at it in disbelief. Unless Eleanor has hundreds of replicas of the same tablecloth, the original should have been yellow and falling apart by now.

“Come, sit!” she chides him, perching delicately on one of the chairs. “Tea was the loveliest part of the day. All those little pastries and sandwiches, and of course, the company,” she beams at him. He gives a fond smile back.

“So, this is what you’ve been doing all this time. Having tea?” he asks.

“Well, it’s not as much fun alone. There are really no more of us here, none that are of the same _level_ as we are.”

“Eleanor-”

“-do you remember all of those conversations we had. You used to tell me such interesting things, did you not? And then, after afternoon tea, we used to have-” she coughs lightly, “-more fun?” she winks at him.

“We had a great time, back then,” he reassures her. “But, it’s not nineteen twenty-four anymore. And we have to find that energy-”

“-I _know_ it isn’t,” replies Eleanor, looking a little annoyed. “Do you think this place would be like this if it were? You saw the state of the outside - the locals have gained control and, well, you can’t exactly expect them to run a country properly, can you? I mean, some of them are decent but the majority of them - they’re more like children, need to be taught their place.”

“Eleanor,” he exclaims. “You’re talking about-”

“-Oh never mind that. Remember how we danced, that one night?” she pivots. “Yes, we have no bananas, we have no bananas today!” she sings to herself, looking away from him. Jack has had enough.

“Duchess, we are running out of time,” he pleads with her. “We've got to find the source of that energy field. Is there something you're not telling me?”

“Jack, what happened to all our alien bounty after you took it away?” she asks, ignoring his question.

“Packed into storage, forgotten about,” he responds offhandedly.

“Just like me. You never gave me another thought, did you, hmm? Not the tiniest little thought of dear Nellie?” she asks, looking deep into his eyes. He swallows, uncomfortably.

“I have thought about you,” he says, laughing a little. “I think about everyone.”

“Why did you close us down?” she presses

“They were my orders. The Torchwood Institute knew the Empire was coming to an end.” says Jack uncomfortably. He didn’t exactly feel like rehashing the argument they had about the British Empire.

“And they didn't want all that alien loot left lying around. Imagine if the locals had got their grubby hands on something lethal,” she scoffed. He rolled his eyes at her.

“They were different times, Eleanor,” he says, tiredly. “These are different times.”

“I suppose,” she says, resting her hand delicately near his, looking up at him through her lashes. Jack stands there, frozen to his chair, as she gazes at him. Then he yanks his hand away and stands up.

“We have to keep tracking the energy signature,” he reminds her.

“Oh, yes, of course. Come. Let's go to the rose gardens.”

* * *

**July 1923**

**Laksh**

Ambika slides into her seat next to him a minute after he returns from downstairs. Moments later, Noor arrives, picking up the paperwork that the Duchess is technically supposed to do, but has no patience for. They both do not speak.

Laksh watches as Noor clicks her pen and gets to work, filling in and finishing form after form. He doesn’t think she’s ever been this productive before; surely none of them have ever tried to be. Ambika on the other hand does very little for the rest of the day. Instead, she doodles on a piece of paper, drawing intricate, spiraling designs across the sheet in a style that reminds him of the _marudhani_ that his mother used to apply onto his sister’s hands. He understands, they’re both trying to find a distraction. He is also silent, choosing to quietly calculate his values and run the materials test by himself.

Edward is, as usual, uninterested in anyone or anything.

The two of them do not seem especially keen on talking to him, which makes sense. If he was caught in a compromising position by a coworker, especially if he was caught with another man, he would try his best to avoid everyone. He isn’t particularly disturbed by it - but he does need to have a conversation with them. Just not yet.

He waits until the end of the day, when Edward has left to have dinner at the club. He turns to Noor, speaking to her for the first time since the morning.

“Can you get dinner?” he asks politely. She nods, and rushes out of the room without talking. Ambika continues to be silent and he decides that now is a good time to ease her mind.

“ _You don’t have to worry,_ ” he whispers in Hindi. “ _We’ll talk more downstairs._ ”

She looks at him, alarmed, but he shakes his head at her and points down. She seems to understand. The Duchess might not understand Hindi, but they can be far more discreet downstairs.

Noor returns with their dinner and they slowly make their way downstairs, Ambika looks a little less nervous, but he can feel waves of tension just radiating off of Noor. He keeps his mouth shut until he enters the room and closes the door.

“ _Calm down,_ ” he says lightly in Hindi. “ _You don’t have to worry about anything. I would suggest finding better hiding spaces though.”_

“ _What?_ ” Noor asks, eyes wide with fear.

“I’m not going to tell anyone. I’ll keep your secret.” he says reassuringly. “I promise.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Ambika smiles widely. “ _Thank God._ ”

“ _Thank you-_ ”

“ _No need to thank me. It’s the decent thing to do,_ ” Laksh cuts Noor off. “ _It was - it was what someone did for me. I’m just passing it forwards._ ”

“ _What?_ ” Ambika asks, looking a bit confused.

“ _Well, you aren’t the only one here to have been caught with someone you shouldn’t have._ ” he smiles. “ _I was as well._ ”

“ _Well, who was she?_ ” Noor asks, looking interested. “ _What was her name?_ ”

“ _His name was Sri,_ ” Laksh says, biting back a smile, but openly laughing once he sees the expression on Ambika and Noor’s faces.

“ _What?_ ” Noor exclaims.

He drops down into his chair in response. “ _So, what’s for dinner?_ ”

“ _Uh, no - you cannot just leave it at that!_ ” shrieks Ambika, smiling widely in disbelief. “ _You? With a-_ ”

“ _-Boy?_ ” Laksh grins slyly. “ _Perhaps._ ”

“ _Well, give us more!_ ” demands Ambika. Noor nods eagerly, looking at him with pleading eyes.

“ _What do I say? He was my neighbor, we became close friends and spent a lot of time together. Then, when we were seventeen-_ ” he cuts off, pressing his lips together and ducking his head down in embarrassment.

“ _You became more than friends?_ ” Noor supplies. He nods, smiling up at her.

“ _Yes,_ ” says Laksh. “ _We were somewhat careless one time and, well, my sister found us together when she came looking for me. It was perhaps the most terrifying experience of my life at the time. The moment when our eyes locked - my heart probably stopped. But my sister was good - she never let on. We never once spoke about it, and she never once told anyone._ ”

“ _What happened to him?_ ” asks Ambika, looking deeply sympathetic. He figured that she understood what had happened, but wanted to confirm what she already knew.

“ _We drifted apart,_ ” he replies, a little regretfully. “ _One day, we decided that we could not continue further, and said our goodbyes. I went off to college and he didn’t follow me. I haven’t seen him since, but I’ll never regret anything. Even when I get married._ ”

“ _Married?_ ” Noor asks.

“ _Well it’ll happen sometime I suppose. The last time I wrote home, my mother hinted at it. When my two elder brothers’ marriages are fixed, she’ll start looking for mine I expect._ ” Laksh says. “ _I look forward to who she finds._ ”

“ _I suppose we’ll all have to get married at some point,_ ” Ambika says, looking sadly at Noor. Laksh’s heart breaks slightly. All three of them know how Ambika and Noor’s love will end - the same way his adolescent dalliance did. It was just a matter of pretending that they didn’t, and ignoring the consequences until they struck them in the face. He wishes it wasn’t the case - that the women before him might be able to stay together for the rest of their lives.

In any case, they’d have nothing but fond memories to look back upon. Just like he did.

“ _Well then,_ ” he grins at them, hoping to break the melancholic mood. “ _What do we have for dinner today?_ ”

“ _Lacha paratha and yogurt,_ ” replies Noor, gesturing towards the aluminum tiffin carrier. “ _Here, help yourself._ ”

The atmosphere as they eat has the same casual air as usual, the afternoon’s nervous tension present dissipated. He’s mostly quiet, letting Ambika and Noor fill in the comfortable silence when they feel like it.

He’s glad he can be there for the two of them. And he’s especially glad that he was the one to find them in the closet - and not anyone else.

* * *

**April 2009**

**Jack**

The pleasant smell of roses wafts from the bushes as Jack walks through the rose garden, arm in arm with Eleanor. They amble down the path, Eleanor swaying her free arm to brush softly against the petals nearby.

“You always were a great gardener, Eleanor,” says Jack, plucking a pale pink rose from a nearby bush, ignoring her disapproving cluck. He examines it for a moment, holding the stem in his hand. Ianto was never the flower type of man, but perhaps Gwen might like to have one. He tucks the stem into the pocket of his shorts, making sure to angle the bud so it hangs outside.

“I've had time on my hands. And English roses thrive in Indian beds,” she says, voice haughty and chin pointed upwards.

“Mm, that so?” he responds sardonically. She doesn’t rise to it.

“Indeed. There are some wonderful evergreens. And I'm particularly proud of my Eden Romantica. Aren't they dainty?” she asks, tilting her head towards one of the bushes. “Although I would appreciate it if they stayed intact.”

“And that's all you've done for nearly ninety years - grow roses?” Jack asks in disbelief. Clearly, she doesn’t think anything of it, simply giving him a reproachful look.

“You save the world by blowing things up, my methods are different. I preserve the world, and all that's good about it. An English country garden,” her voice raises on the last sentence, daring him to disagree with her.

“In the middle of India,” Jack reminds her. He holds out his scanner, angling it from side to side and frowns when he can’t find anything. “Well, everything's clear here. Not a word from Gwen or Ianto either. Eleanor, we are running out of time!”

“Not necessarily,” she says flippantly. “Jack, do you remember that day when we got a train into the country before dawn?”

He laughs softly, the memory of that day coming back to him. “We ate boiled eggs, and watched the elephants playing in the fields.”

Eleanor smiles at him, lacing her hand through his, and he smiles back at her, remembering how she’d laughed at the baby elephant who followed it’s mother around the field.

“So you do remember? It was the day before you betrayed me. After that I hid myself away. I couldn't bear what was happening in the world outside,” she says, voice wavering. He raises his eyebrows at her and she twists her mouth into a frown.

“Why?”

“Jack, the end of the Empire. Partition. We spent centuries holding this country together with vinegar and brown paper, but we managed it. And then Great Britain let it all go!” she continues, raising her tone dramatically. He rolls his eyes, avoiding her steely gaze.

“The Empire had its day,” he reminds her, and she draws her face up into a deeper scowl.

“No! Some fool drew a jiggly little line down India between the Muslim and the Hindu and it's been a bloodbath ever since. Jack, the twentieth century was when everything changed. What wouldn't you give for another go at it?” she asks, looking at him pleadingly. He shakes his head, disappointed.

“The sun set on the Empire, and a lot of people are glad about that,” he says. “The atrocities that the Empire committed-”

“-Oh, that's just so British of them! Embarrassed by our successes. Before we came, the Indians were just peasants,” says Eleanor haughtily. Jack gives her a disparaging look.

“You're talking about the world's oldest living civilisation. India goes on, outlasting everyone who conquers it,” replies Jack, annoyed.

“Nonsense. This country needed the Empire. History took a wrong turn after 1924. I'd far rather stay in here, where there's plenty of gin, and the Times is still ironed neatly down the middle!” Eleanor says, sticking her chin up. He rolls his eyes at her words and she glares at him.

“You fail to look at the other side,” he remarks. “You view everything from your perspective and don’t realize that others may have differing thoughts from you.”

She shrugs, pulling him down the path with her, not responding. Jack thinks he might have finally gotten to her, until she speaks again.

“Do you remember when you used to bring me flowers from the garden and little sweets from the _mithaiwala_ , even though I kept telling you they were probably unsafe to eat? We were happy, for those few months.” says Eleanor, changing the subject.

“Yes, for those few months,” he replies. She pulls him closer, until they are standing face to face. Jack looks down at her, confused.

“What if we could be happy again,” she whispers. Jack cocks an eyebrow, opening his mouth to answer, when Eleanor leans up on the tips of her toes, cups his face with her hands, and presses her lips to his. He stands there, frozen for a second, before lightly pushing her away. She looks at him, confused, and he shakes his head.

“No,” he says gently. “We aren’t going to do this.”

“But why not!” Eleanor demands. “You can’t deny, we work well together. And besides, who else-”

“-Eleanor, I’m with someone else,” says Jack, patiently. She gapes, looking at him in shock.

“What?”

“I’m with Ianto - you met him earlier,” elaborates Jack.

“The Welsh one?” scoffs Eleanor. “ _Him_? Really?”

“Yes,” Jack says insistently. “Him. And I’m not going to be happy with you anyway - even if I wasn’t with him. We had a good few months. But it’s over now.”

“But-” says Eleanor, still in a state of shock. Jack shakes his head, a little sadly. A part of him will always have Eleanor in his heart, much like anyone else he’s ever spent time with. But that part of his life is over, and he’s happy for that.

“We’re running out of time, come on.”

* * *

**November 1923**

**Laksh**

Laksh fiddles with the hem of his shirt. He’s standing with the rest of the employees, Edward, Ambika, and Noor, near the entrance outside, behind the Duchess. Edward is to his right, staring impassively at one of the rose bushes, Ambika and Noor stand to his left, holding hands anxiously. Ambika is staring ahead, eyes hard and set upon the Duchess’s back. He can’t see into Noor’s face fully - she’s draped her _dupatta_ over her eyes - but he can see the way she’s clenching her jaw, and he knows she’s as nervous as the rest of them.

Jack Harkness is coming.

None of them knows what this means. The man is a mystery, an enigma that they have no information on. Other than letting them know that he was coming, the Duchess has been completely tight-lipped about him, and Edward, the only one who dares to ask her direct questions about their visitor, came back with no answers.

Laksh locks his eyes on the gate as it finally opens, and in comes a horse drawn rickshaw, a _tanga,_ the driver pulling the reins of the horse to bring it to a halt. A second later, a man jumps out of the _tanga,_ something that Laksh had never seen any Britisher do.

He wears a similar suit to Edward, though surprisingly his is fitted more tightly, and oddly features a blue shirt - every other suit Laksh had seen were worn with white shirts. He brushes the front of his trousers and then walks forwards and gives the Duchess a big smile, extending his hand.

“Duchess,” he says, and she places her hand on his. He brings it up to kiss quickly and the Duchess lets out a tiny delighted laugh, one that Laksh has never heard before. Then he releases it, focusing his attention on everyone else. “And this must be your staff!”

He walks up to them, grinning broadly, shaking Edward’s hand, bowing to Noor, bringing his hands together in a namaste to Ambika, then curiously also shaking her hand. Then he walks in front of Laksh and sticks out his hand.

Laksh takes it - giving it a tight squeeze and shaking it firmly. Captain Harkness smiles back, teeth straight and white, and for a moment, it’s like the world has melted away and it’s only the two of them standing there between the roses.

Then he lets go and the moment ends. Captain Harkness turns to the rickshaw driver, who had placed the Captain’s one suitcase onto the ground while he was talking to them. “Thank you,” he says, and hands the driver a few coins.

“Well, let’s get you out of this infernal heat,” the Duchess says, “Laksh, come take his luggage.”

Laksh glares at her, about to remind her that he did not work as a bag lifter, but rather a physicist, when Captain Harkness shakes his head and picks it up himself. “No need, Duchess. I’m strong enough and I’m sure your staff has more important things to do than look after me.”

The Duchess huffs, then pastes on her smile again. “Of course. Now, the rest of you, get to work,” she orders, and the four of them scuffle off before she begins to screech at them.

Laksh doesn’t know what to think. Any other Britisher wouldn’t have even given them a second thought, ready to accept any Hindustani as a servant. They wouldn’t have cared about him, something that he’s quite used to. He’s been told to fetch drinks, carry things, and clean the house, all while having to remain respectful to the _velinattu nai_ that couldn’t seem to understand that not everyone who looked different from them was a servant.

Somehow, something is different about this Captain Harkness. He doesn’t know what it is or why he seems to be affecting Laksh like this, so much so that he’s walked to his desk in a daze, having no memory of how he arrived here. He stares at his desk quietly, seemingly incapable of starting his work, when the Duchess and Captain Harkness walk in. He rises to his feet, turning to look at them.

“You there,” the Duchess says to him. “Come show Captain H around our base. He’ll be needing a tour.”

“Yes your Grace,” responds Laksh, tired of reminding her that his job was not cleaner, or luggage carrier, or tour guide. A walk around the base might be nice anyway. “This way, Captain.” He walks out the front door, deciding to work from the outside in, and Captain Harkness follows him.

“That right there is the Royal Connaught Club.” Laksh points. “It’s a fully functioning gentleman’s club, and I’m sure the Duchess has already signed you up. You can get your meals there, and relax, if you please.”

“Interesting,” says Captain Harkness, looking at him instead of the club. He’s got quite nice features, and his smile, which seems to be perpetually affixed to his face, makes him look actually friendly. “Now, I only got the Duchess’s name when I was assigned here, they didn’t tell me any of yours.”

“I’m Laksh, sir,” he says. “The others are Edward, Ambika, who was in the red sari, and Noor. She was the one with her dupatta over her face.”

“I see,” says Captain Harkness, then reaches out to take his hand again. Laksh looks at him in surprise, and he simply clasps it, shaking it once. “I’m Jack.” He doesn’t bother to release it, and Laksh, to his immense surprise, doesn’t feel the need to either.

“I know, sir,” he says, smiling politely. “We were made aware of your visit a few months ago.”

“Please, call me Jack,” he says with a playful grin. Without letting go of Laksh’s hand, he steps closer, until they are near enough that he can smell him. Laksh stares at him oddly, taking in a deep breath. What is he doing?

“I - um,” he stutters, then pulls himself together. Laksh removes his hand from Jack’s grip, then points in the direction of the greenhouse entrance. “If you’ll come this way, I can show you the inside of our base.”

“Sure,” says Jack, and follows Laksh to the greenhouse, walking beside him slowly. The man keeps looking at him, which Laksh firmly ignores.

“This is our greenhouse. We store a few Earth plants, as well as many alien species.” Laksh gestures. He points out a few different plants, and Jack looks at him attentively.

“So, are you the one who takes care of these plants? The botanist?” Jack asks. Laksh shakes his head.

“No, I’m actually the physicist, but me, Noor, and Ambika take care of them together. We don’t have an official botanist,” Laksh explains.

“Well you’ve certainly done a wonderful job of taking care of them,” Jack says, bending down to look closely at one of them. He pulls himself up and leans close to Laksh, smiling suggestively. “Do you pay such good attention to _everything_ you do?”

“It’s my job,” responds Laksh plainly.

“So it is,” says Jack. “I’m curious, what would you do if you didn’t work here?”

Laksh is silent for a minute, simply staring into Jack’s expressive eyes and thinking. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “I’ve worked here so long, I don’t think I can imagine working anywhere else.”

“I see,” Jack responds, looking thoughtful. Then he breaks into a smile and pats Laksh on the shoulder. “Well, nice greenhouse! Show me the rest?”

Laksh takes Jack through the rest of the base and answers the rest of his many questions throughout the tour. Jack, unlike many other Britishers, actually seems to take his qualifications and opinions at face value. It’s quite refreshing, if Laksh is honest with himself.

At the end of the tour, Jack thanks him and asks him to bring everyone to the main hall because he has an announcement. He then disappears into the parlor, presumably to fetch the Duchess, and Laksh makes his way to the hall.

He meets Ambika’s eyes and he can tell that she’s about to ask him about Jack and what he’s like, but before she can, both the Duchess and Jack walk in. Jack gives everyone a reassuring smile.

“Look, I’m sure all of you are wondering why exactly I’m here,” he starts. “The truth is, I’m here to shut this branch down.”

“What!” the Duchess asks, eyes wide. Laksh looks at Jack in shock; he’d never have imagined that after so much made of the visit, this was why the man had come here.

Noor whispers something to Ambika in Hindi that he doesn’t catch. Edward looks stupefied. But the strangest thing is the expression on the Duchess’s face. He’d have expected her to be sad or angry, maybe even cry. Instead her face is passive, calculating. She’s shocked, yes, but the typical response of being told your livelihood is being taken away isn’t shown on her face. He realizes that the Duchess isn’t sad.

She’s planning something.

* * *

**April 2009**

**Gwen**

“Well, that’s the last of the tour, I’m afraid. I’m sorry you couldn’t find the signal anywhere,” says Mahajan, with a sickly sweet grin on his face. Gwen stretches her mouth into a polite smile, and turns to look at Ianto, eyebrows raised. Ianto shrugs.

“Would you mind showing where I can get water?” she asks, hoping to get away from him and explore the base by herself.

“Oh, I’ll fetch some for you,” Mahajan says. “Just stay right here!”

“Oh, of course,” Gwen lies easily. The minute Mahajan disappears around the corner, Gwen grabs Ianto’s arm and pulls him with her.

“Gwen?” Ianto asks, whispering. Gwen touches her finger to her lips as she drags him along. He takes the hint, offering no complaint as she leads him down the corridor they came from and into the basement stairs. Looking around at both sides, Gwen slowly prods the door open, and slips inside, Ianto behind her.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about that door on the steps,” Gwen explains. “Why wouldn’t he let us in there if it was just a storage closet?”

“Yeah,” says Ianto, holding up his scanner. They walk down the steps silently, and when they reach the door, they find that it’s locked.

“Shite,” Gwen complains. Ianto stares at it for a few moments, pulling at it to see if it opens. Then he turns to her.

“I think I can get this open easily,” he says. “Got any kind of pin? A couple of them?”

Gwen rifles through her hair and extracts two of the many pins she’d used to keep her hair back that day. Handing them to Ianto, she smooths her hair back behind her ear. She wasn’t fond of putting her hair up, but it was better than having her sweaty hair stick to her face all day.

She misses the Cardiff cold.

Ianto fiddles with the lock for a moment, dragging the first pin along the top of the keyhole while twisting the second. Then, after hearing a click, he straightens back up with a proud smile and hands the pins back to Gwen. She gives him an amused look.

“What?” he asks, pushing the door open. She shakes her head, and walks in after him. It’s pitch black, the only light coming from the stairwell, but as her eyes adjust to the dimness, she can make out one thing. It’s far too big to be a mere storage cabinet.

“Think there’s a light switch anywhere?”

Gwen fumbles alongside the wall, then feels something that might be a switch. Flicking it up, she closes her eyes as the room is flooded in light, blinding her for a moment. When the spots clear, she gasps at what she sees.

“What the hell,” Ianto whispers.

They aren’t in any kind of storage closet. The room looks very similar to the parlor that they’d visited before, except there’s no furniture anywhere. But that isn’t the strangest part.

In front of them are four incredibly life-sized sculptures of people, frozen where they stand. At least, Gwen thinks they’re sculptures. The alternative, that they’re actually real people, is disturbing to say the least.

Gwen walks up the one closest to her and examines it. The darker skinned woman is dressed in a _sari_ , the end of it looped over her head. Her expression is one of absolute anger and terror, mouth stretched into a horrific yell, eyes burning into Gwen. Gwen extends out a hand and slowly touches the other woman. She recoils in shock.

“She’s warm.” Gwen shudders. Forcing her hand back, she presses two fingers to the side of the woman’s neck and feels alongside it for a pulse. Beating slowly but surely against her fingers, Gwen feels the woman’s pulse. This isn’t a statue.

“Are they-” Ianto starts to say, tone hushed. Gwen nods at him, and his eyes widen in horror. He walks up to the others, The man in the tailored suit, the other man in a blazer and a long white sarong, and the second woman, who has a cloth draped over her head. All of them are frozen in shock, horror, and anger, and Ianto softly presses two fingers to each one’s neck.

“They’re all alive,” he announces to her. “What the hell is going on?”

“We have to tell Jack about this. They’re covering this up - why else would he not show us this room?” Gwen demands. “Let’s go find him.”

Ianto nods, and the two are about to step out when Mahajan walks in. Gwen gasps and reaches for her gun, before realizing she doesn’t have it. Why hadn’t Jack let her bring it?

“What is going on,” Ianto says, voice harsh and demanding. Mahajan gives him a sad smile in response, shaking his head.

“I told you not to go anywhere,” he says.

And now we clearly see why,” Gwen retorts, her voice rising with rage. “Tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Mahajan pulls a crystal from his pocket and shakes it. It starts glowing an unearthly purple. “Sorry about this,” he says.

“No,” Ianto yells, running forwards to tackle the man. But before anything can happen, Majahan drops the crystal to the ground and that’s the last thing Gwen can see before everything turns black.

* * *

** PART THREE **

**November 1923**

**Ambika**

A day after Captain Harkness - “Call me Jack,” he insists with a roguish smile and charming wink every time after Ambika addresses him - makes his announcement, the Duchess descends into a fume.

Her quarters are located down the same hallway as Ambika’s and Noor’s, the men’s quarters on the other side of the level, a fact that the Duchess has seemingly always rued, but at late hours of the night and early morning, Ambika will hear clicking footsteps - those belonging to expensive heeled sandals or shoes - up and down the hallway as she lies awake in her bed, wondering whether she can sneak away to Noor’s room. She never does, trembling fearfully at the thought of discovery, watching the hours tick away on the small clock resting on her bedside table as she listens to the Duchess pace furiously.

The first morning, Ambika rises, washes, and dresses and sneaks upstairs to the grounds of the club to explore and take in the sunlight and birds chirping before the first clubgoers arrive. When she finally lays eyes on the Duchess late in the afternoon, the other woman is as perfectly composed as usual, her blond locks coiled upwards in a style Ambika envies. The only indication that anything is amiss with the woman is the steeliness in her gaze, not unfamiliar but more prominent than usual.

“ _Did you hear anything unusual last night?_ ” Ambika murmurs to Laksh in Hindi during a quiet moment at lunch, but the physicist shakes his head in bewilderment.

When she repeats the question to Noor an hour later, her expression immediately colors in with understanding as she nods.

“ _The Duchess,_ ” she says. “ _Pacing up and down. I could hear her footsteps through my walls. Something’s troubling her._ ”

“ _It’s evident what,_ ” Ambika adds, nodding discreetly towards the handsome American captain joking with the Duchess across the main hall.

His voice is loud and booming, his laugh infectious; something about that man is magnetic, almost godlike. The Duchess stares hungrily at him when he’s around, her tone reverent when he’s not.

Ambika will willingly admit that he’s very, _very_ pretty, with those sharp cheekbones and the styled mop of dark hair and those ocean-colored eyes, but she much prefers Noor’s smooth-cheeked, dark-eyed beauty.

“ _What could London want?_ ” wonders Noor quietly, following Ambika’s gaze to the captain. “ _Why would they send him here? Why would they want to shut us down?_ ”

Laksh, who’d been lurking nearby, moves closer, voice pitched low. “ _They don’t trust the Duchess, especially after the Duke’s death. They never trusted her, really,_ ” he explains.

“ _Because she’s a woman,_ ” Noor surmises, eyes flickering angrily, but Laksh shakes his head. Then his expression becomes thoughtful, his brow creasing.

Finally, he says, “ _Possibly. It is the British Raj. Despite their queens, they may not want a woman in charge, but the Duchess is definitely a unique case. She’s too ambitious, too unpredictable to trust to lead Torchwood into the future._ ” A beat. “ _I would prefer Torchwood India shut down than with her in charge._ ”

Ambika’s surprised to find that she agrees with Laksh, though she doesn’t express so. She doesn’t get a chance to, because a moment later, Captain Harkness beckons Laksh forward for a conversation about alien gravitational laws beyond even her understanding.

A few days later, with the captain away visiting various sites around Delhi, the Duchess disappears for _hours,_ leaving Ambika and the other three to work peacefully. Not that there is much work left to do.

Most of Ambika’s duties now comprise finishing up her calculations and writing out theories and explanations for the poor pencil pushers at Torchwood London who will inherit her papers. It’s much more tedious than it honestly sounds, and Ambika can certainly see how it will take her several months. She’d been in the midst of numerous projects under the Duke’s supervision, and most of them had been curtailed by the Duchess’s presence.

She tucks a lock of hair that has slipped loose from her braid behind her ear before balancing her pencil on her fingers, hunched over her desk. The pencil slips from her grasp when the Duchess suddenly appears in the archway that leads downstairs to the archives, demanding all their attention.

There’s something bright and glowing clutched tightly in her hands, but the Duchess angles her body away from Ambika’s eyes, smiling with a maniac joy that Ambika’s never seen before. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed, her hair curling up in wisps around her face. Her silk dress is dusty and wrinkled in places. This is likely the most disheveled Ambika’s ever seen the Duchess, and her stomach roils in nervy surprise.

 _This cannot be good,_ she thinks.

“Jack can try,” the Duchess announces, her posh voice slanted with triumph, clearly keenly aware of four brown-eyed gazes locked upon her, “but he cannot bring an end to Torchwood India.”

Frozen stiff with concern and fear, Ambika watches the Duchess step carefully towards Laksh’s desk. He too is watching her warily. Noor leans against the pillar she’d previously been rounding before the Duchess’s appearance. The Duchess drops the object clutched in her grasp to the smooth wood of Laksh’s desk, and Ambika gets her first good look at a thickly-cut purple crystal with metallic silver wires coiled around it as a wireframe. It glints dully under the light, though she gets the sneaking suspicion it should be glowing.

“Study it,” she orders Laksh coldly before stalking off without a word. Her footsteps echo up the stairs as she returns to the main floor of the club.

Laksh gazes at Ambika helplessly. “Study what?” he asks no one in particular, but there is no response.

Noor’s bright eyes are wide and fearful as they fix upon the crystal. Later, pressed against Ambika in a shadowy corridor, she explains in Hindi, “ _I’ve seen that crystal before. In the archives, when the Duke once sent me down there. It was labelled with instructions never to touch as it was deadly._ ”

Listening to Noor, Ambika shudders, her skin erupting into sudden goosebumps. Whatever the Duchess is plotting, she cannot be up to any good.

* * *

**April 2009**

**Ianto**

When Ianto first stirs awake, back wedged against a smooth wall, Gwen half-draped over his lap, unconscious, his first thought, briefly, before rationale and memory floods back in, is, _What did Jack do now?_ Because the last six times Ianto and/or Gwen were kidnapped, it was always to be held as leverage against Jack. (It’s a fact of life as a Torchwood operative; you could be kidnapped on the way to work or the way back.) Needless to say, their alien captors always found themselves on the wrong side of Gwen’s temper and/or weapon.

Except, when Ianto’s bleary gaze flickers around their cell, he realizes it’s a lot more lavish than the usual dirt floors and brick walls found in exotic locales across Cardiff. The walls opposing Ianto are plastered with an opulent floral wallpaper, the ground between Ianto’s outstretched legs dark marble. It’s a familiar marble, the same one Ianto, Jack, and Gwen had tread on upstairs in various rooms of the Royal Connaught Club.

Right, so they’re still in the club, Ianto surmises, heaving a sigh. That’s a good sign. He remembers Mahajan bringing Gwen and him down here after putting up much protest, but that’s where his memory ends, at taking the first step down the stairs. Clearly, Mahajan is responsible for entrapping Ianto and Gwen - at the Duchess’s orders, likely. And Jack has been left alone with her, he realizes with a stab of uneasiness, but Jack is over a hundred years old and immortal. Ianto’s confident he can hold his own against a malicious ex-girlfriend; hasn’t every member of Torchwood at this point?

A row of iron bars with a complicated-looking padlock are what actually encloses Ianto and Gwen in, and if Ianto strains his eyes beyond the bars, he thinks he can make out a hazy force field of purple energy but nothing else.

So the first priority is attempting to free Gwen and himself rather than puzzling over the missing ten minutes or so of his memory or worrying about Jack. Everything else comes after.

As gently as he can as to not disturb Gwen in his lap, Ianto pats himself down and finds that he still has his gun, his brow furrowing in bewilderment. Who would leave their captive with a weapon? Ultimately, he shrugs. There’s no use to his gun, not really, unless he and Gwen can break out of this cell. Well, he could always shoot the lock, but he would rather not waste bullets on that if necessary until he finds out what awaits him beyond the iron bars.

There’s a quiet moan from Gwen, and Ianto’s gaze flickers downwards as she finally shifts, stirring awake. Nosily, she props herself up, Ianto supporting her.

“Careful,” he whispers as she rubs her head, accidentally tugging sleek dark locks from her plait. “You’ve been out longer than I have.”

“Ianto?” she asks, voice slurring as her eyes slowly focus on him. “Where are we? What happened?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Gwen bites her lip in concentration, likely straining her memory just as Ianto had. Her nose wrinkles before her eyes widen in realization. “Mahajan! That squirrelly-faced bastard! He knocked us out after we found...” A moment later, she rockets to her feet, unintentionally shoving off Ianto’s supporting grip, and rushes to peer beyond the iron bars. He stands after her, legs wobbling like a baby lamb when he regains his steadiness, before joining her by her side.

Closer, the purple force field becomes more transparent, allowing for the rest of the room to be made out, and Ianto suddenly remembers what he’d been forgetting.

The four figures are frozen, arms outstretched and expressions warped mid-scream, just as they’d been when Ianto and Gwen had first stumbled upon them. Now that he’s no longer immediately shocked and can take a good look at them and the force field enclosing them and likely holding them pinned in suspended animation, he can see how the two women are standing close to each other, the sharper-featured one angled protectively before the other, their hands reaching for each other. The darker-skinned man at the front has eyes shadowed with a furious rage that makes Ianto shiver. The lighter-skinned man looks as if he’d been reaching for a weapon at his waist.

“What do you suppose the force field is?” Ianto murmurs to Gwen, too hesitant to raise his voice and disturb them, even though he knows - rationally - that is not possible.

“A time bubble perhaps?” Gwen replies just as quietly, shrugging. “Jack would know what it is.”

“Right then,” he says. “Any plan on how to get out of here?”

She glances assessing around the cell, just as Ianto had, before her eyes fix on something just past the iron bars that Ianto hadn’t noticed before - a rather large lump of the purple crystal Mahajan had brandished before them to knock them unconscious.

“Mahajan wouldn’t have really have been so stupid to leave that behind, would he?” wonders Ianto, but Gwen throws him a dirty look.

“Don’t count our blessings,” she chides him with an amused grin before kneeling down and stretching her arm, her fingers still several inches from the crystal. They don’t really have any way to actually follow safety precautions as they usually would with strange alien artifacts, their cell completely empty, so Ianto keeps his warnings to himself. Gwen grunts with the effort of attempting to grasp it until she finally rocks back on her heels, defeated. “I can’t reach it.” Then she glances up thoughtfully at Ianto. “You have longer arms.”

He rolls his eyes and gently nudges her aside to kneel before the bars. He slips his arm in between a gap and angles his shoulder to reach for the crystal fragment. It’s still a bit further away, so he strains, arm muscles burning, until his fingers wrap around the fragment, which surprisingly warms to his touch, almost as if it’s responding to him. He isn’t deterred by this and leans back, standing and offering the crystal to Gwen with a triumphant raise of his eyebrow.

“It’s not that impressive,” she tells him, scowling, as she takes the crystal.

Once Ianto’s done chuckling, he asks, “Now what?”

Gwen glances from the crystal clutched in her palm to the force field, expression becoming intrigued and considering. Ianto feels a mass of nervy uneasiness come to life at the pit of his stomach; usually, when Gwen wears that smile, Ianto’s left to sort out fire damage or buy her a new leather jacket.

“I wonder what would happen if two different energy sources collide,” she says, eyes sparking wildly.

“Gwen, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he begins to say, but Gwen’s already flexing the hand holding the crystal, preparing for her throw.

The explosion isn’t as large as Ianto anticipated, but the resulting wave of purple energy that still washes over him and Gwen causes them to stumble, Gwen leaning against Ianto for support. With wide eyes, they both watch the time bubble splinter before dissolving into fragments, the crystal falling to the carpet with a muffled _thud._

There’s a sudden collective almost _sigh_ as the four enclosed in the bubble spring back to life, shifting and moving together like a film set to play. The darker-skinned man’s furious expression becomes bewildered as he notices Gwen and Ianto, the two women unconsciously linking hands as the other man frowns.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” the other man finally asks.

Gwen and Ianto only gape back.

* * *

**January 1924**

**Ambika**

“ _Don’t go,_ ” Noor says softly in Hindi as she cradles Ambika in her arms, their flushed skin exposed to the chill of the underground base. Ambika shivers, but considering their _activities_ of the past few hours, she welcomes the coolness. “ _Stay with me longer._ ”

 _Fall asleep with me,_ they both know she means.

Ambika nestles closer, slipping her head against the graceful curve of Noor’s neck, planting a sweet kiss on the other woman’s bare, sweat-slicked shoulder. Her heart thumps almost painfully with how much she loves her.

“ _I cannot,_ ” she replies mournfully. “ _I must return to my room before morning, otherwise we risk being caught._ ”

Noor fixes her with pleading eyes, even if the understanding is hidden there in those brown depths. “ _We don’t have much time left together,_ ” she replies. “ _Not with Torchwood India and the club both being shut down._ ” Her gaze becomes pained as she ducks her head downwards, glancing at the floor. “ _I’ll miss you._ ”

“ _No, don’t say that._ ” Ambika slips from the bed, kneeling before Noor on the smooth marble tiles. She reaches up to cradle Noor’s cheeks with gentle palms, stroking her temples with her thumbs. “ _Do not say that. We will find each other again after Torchwood is gone._ I _will find you again._ ” She hesitates, only slightly. “ _I love you. Ever since I met you, it has felt like a missing half of my soul, of my heart, has sunk back into place._ ”

“ _Ambika…._ ” Noor trails off, eyes wide and soft, lips parted, seemingly at a loss for words. Instead, she bends forward and captures Ambika’s mouth, kissing Ambika with a painful tenderness that has every inch of her body _aching._ She doesn’t remember who she was before she met Noor; her body, and her heart, has thoroughly learned the other woman’s touch. “ _I love you too. I think I will not be able to go on without you by my side._ ”

Chuckling slightly, Ambika says, “ _Then I will never leave it._ ”

“ _It won’t be easy, outside of Torchwood,_ ” Noor warns. “ _My family will wish to marry me away now that the job will have ended._ ”

“ _As will mine,_ ” replies Ambika. “ _But we will find a way to be together despite everything. They cannot separate you from me now._ ” In English: “Worry not, _meri jaan._ I will find you again.”

“ _Stay with me,_ ” Noor begs again, bringing her hands to cover Ambika’s over her cheeks. “ _Just for a few minutes._ ”

And, especially after the past few minutes, Ambika cannot bear to refuse, to tell Noor _no, I must return_ , and thus, she slips back into the bed, allowing her lover to wrap her arms around her. They lie like that for another hour, legs tangled together, fingers linked, pouring out their hearts to each other in the darkness of Noor’s bedroom.

Neither woman wants this moment to end, this moment, one of the many remaining between them, to slip away. The future is terribly uncertain, and despite plans Noor and Ambika make attempts to weave, there is no telling, no way to divine, what will happen.

Finally, Ambika reluctantly says, “ _Now, I must go_. _Before morning comes._ ” And despite Noor’s frown, she loosens her arms and watches her lover slip free and redress in her loose cotton nightclothes before tiptoeing out the door.

The hallway, lacking any of the warmth of Noor and her bed and her smile, is chilly, Ambika shivering and wrapping her shawl more tightly around herself, but also dimly lit with glowing lamps. Ambika’s room is on the other end of the hallway, so she shuffles forward quietly, lost in thoughts of Noor and their future, which is why she doesn’t hear the footsteps until Captain Harkness rounds the corner and appears before her.

“Whoa,” Captain Harkness says, holding out his hands in reassurance before Ambika can flinch back, startled. “Careful. It’s just me. No need to be frightened.” He looks younger, hair messy but pressed flat, dressed in a shirt and loose cotton trousers.

“Captain Harkness,” Ambika says breathlessly, dragging her shawl to cover herself more thoroughly. She’s blushing brightly in the cover of the dimness. “What are you doing here? This is quite improper.”

The captain throws his head back and laughs quietly, a sound which has Ambika’s skin pricking up in goosebumps. “Well, if I was being _proper,_ ” he jokes, adopting a British accent that sounds remarkably posh and like the Duchess’s, “I wouldn’t be me.” Then his expression softens. “Please, just call me Jack.”

For the longest minute, Ambika says nothing. Finally, quite stiffly: “I was just heading back to bed after drinking some water. Good night, Captain.” Using her shawl as a shield, she drifts the final few inches to her bedroom door.

“Ms. Khanna,” Captain Harkness calls after her, advancing a slight step towards her, causing Ambika to step back, her hand on the doorknob. He sighs, stepping back again, smiling softly. “I promise you. Things will get better, freer, more accepting. There will be a point, a little less than a hundred years in the future, when people like us, men who love other men and women who love other women and everyone in between, will be able to live freely, happily even. Get married, have children. Know that you and Mehrunnissa Begum are not alone.”

Ambika’s fearful gaze snaps to the captain as she presses further against the wall. “How can...how do you know?” _About us_ or _about that,_ she doesn’t know which she means.

His expression is soft, sad; in the dim light of the hallway, he looks lost briefly. “Would you believe me if I said this time, this planet, was not my home?”

“No,” Ambika says, but with the conviction, the pain, in his voice… she could perhaps. _He_ certainly believes it.

Captain Harkness laughs again; this time the sound wet and low. “Again, why would you? I wouldn’t blame you.” He forces his face back into a slight smile. “Now, onwards to bed with you.”

“And you?” she asks him quietly, and he glances back towards the other end of the hallway, where the Duchess’s room is located. Then he winks at her.

“Good night,” he tells her.

“Good night, Captain.”

* * *

**April 2009**

**Ianto**

“Who the bloody hell are you?” the man dressed in the old-fashioned suit that Ianto can’t help but admire finally asks, in a posh accent like the Duchess’s. “Where’s the Duchess? Or that bastard Mahajan?”

“Who the bloody hell are _you?_ ” Gwen asks back in bewilderment. The two women and the other man startle upon hearing Gwen’s voice.

The other man’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “You’re not British,” he notes.

“Well, technically…” Ianto begins to murmur to himself, quieting when Gwen shoots him a harsh glance.

“We’re Welsh,” she says, hands cautiously going to the gun she’s only now just realizing is still tucked into the waistband of her shorts. The other four follow the motion, immediately tensing. The darker-skinned man lifts a gun of his own Ianto hadn’t noticed he was holding, but before any confrontation can occur, the woman with sharper features pushes her way to the front of her small gathering, glancing sternly between Gwen and the man.

“Put the guns away,” she orders, lips curled in a frown “Don’t be fools. We’re both trapped here,” - she nods to the iron bars that cage the other four in - “for some clear reason. You wouldn’t want to draw our captors’ attention.”

Although Gwen is quick to drop her hands, the man requires a pointed stare from the woman before he slides the gun away.

“You’re Welsh, right?” comes a soft voice that belongs to the other woman, who looks suddenly uncomfortable at being the center of attention when all gazes turn to her. “From Torchwood Cardiff, perhaps?”

Slowly, Ianto nods. ‘Yes, yes, we are. I’m Ianto, and this is Gwen. We’re here from Cardiff.”

Gwen offers the woman a kind, apologetic smile. “Right, sorry. I didn’t mean to become so aggressive,” she says. “I just didn’t want to take any chances. Not after Mahajan locked us down here.”

“Oh, so you’ve met the squirrel,” the man in the suit snorts. “And he betrayed you. _Typical._ ” A beat. “Where might he and the Duchess be now? He clearly trapped us too before they made their escape.”

“We have to stop her,” the other man says determinedly. “She wants to freeze the Royal Connaught Club, at the very least, in time, to preserve the British Raj, which will come at the cost of many lives. She doesn’t care at all about Hindustanis!” His voice has become impassioned, his eyes darkening with anger.

“Oh,” Gwen says awkwardly, and Ianto winces.

“What?” the man in the suit asks flatly, eyes becoming suspicious again.

“Um,” Ianto says. “It’s just that.”

“I’m afraid that the Duchess might have succeeded,” Gwen finally blurts out. “It’s 2009,” - and she continues on without watching the dramatic shock spread over the other four’s faces - “and the Royal Connaught Club looks like it’s 1924.”

“ _No,_ ” the woman with softer features whispers, her expression having crumpled, taking a step back. The other woman reaches towards her before forcing herself to stop. “It can’t have been! How has it been _over eighty years?_ ” She glances towards the other woman, distraught, tears shining in both their eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Gwen says softly as the two men remain still with shock. Eventually, the darker-skinned man nods slowly.

“Right, then. That’s an unexpected setback in attempting to stop Eleanor,” he says. He glances up at Gwen and Ianto. “I’m Laksh. That’s Edward.” He points to the other man before gesturing towards the women. “And that’s Ambika and Noor.”

“You were Torchwood India,” Ianto realizes, and their gazes snap to him. “I’m the archivist, one of many jobs I hold, in Cardiff, and I’ve seen your personnel files. Countless times, really. You’ve all been marked as MIA for eighty-five years, but there’s never been any investigation into why.”

“Our families,” Laksh says, lips curling into an unhappy smile. “They must think we’re dead.”

“We have _no time_ to dwell on that,” Edward snaps. “If Eleanor is still about and walking, she must have kept herself alive with the time stone. She’s had over eighty years to plan worse endeavors. We need to stop her.”

“And now she’s chatting with Jack,” Ianto murmurs to Gwen, but his voice still carries enough in the small space that Laksh’s eyes narrow.

“Captain Jack Harkness?” he asks as his teammates’ expressions become bewildered. “That’s not possible. He was here in 1924; he shut down Torchwood India. He can’t still be alive, unless the Duchess used the time stone on him too.”

“It could be possible,” Ambika says slowly, talking to herself at first, her voice growing louder as the group turns to her. “He once told me that he wasn’t from this time or from this planet. I’ve done the calculations; it is possible for people to travel in time.”

Gwen and Ianto glance at each other before Gwen sighs.

“Jack has travelled in time,” she tells Ambika, “but the reason he’s still alive right now is because he’s immortal. He’s lived every year since 1924 to 2009. He’s the one who brought us here, to India. He’s our leader.”

“Right,” Edward snarks, reminding Ianto oddly of Owen (and doesn’t that send pangs of sorrow through him), “because if we could have been frozen in time for almost a century, men can be immortal.”

“You said you came here on a mission,” Noor says suddenly as she glances at Gwen. “What mission? Why is Cardiff here? What’s gone wrong?”

“I think,” Ianto begins, rubbing his hands together, “before we all sit down for a chat, we should perhaps conspire on how to escape.” He nods his head pointedly towards the iron bars.

“Just a minute, Ianto,” Gwen tells him, and Ianto rolls his eyes. “We tracked an energy signal that rivalled the Cardiff Rift to Delhi.”

Laksh nods. “Which must have been the time stone.” He takes a step forward and nearly brings his foot down on the crystal fragment lying nearby. He kneels down to pick up the fragment, eyeing it curiously. “I don’t have any tools to study this, but I’m guessing that this crystal is what you used to free us from the time bubble.”

“Yeah,” Gwen says. “How did the Duchess trap you in there to begin with?”

“We tried to stop her,” says Edward flatly, and thus, he begins to narrate the events that unfolded in the few weeks after February 24, 1924.

* * *

**January 1924**

**Ambika**

Ambika doesn’t mean to be eavesdropping, but she’s passing by the Duchess’s parlor on her way to the archives, spurred by Laksh comments about his frustrations about this strange alien artifact that the Duchess is calling the time store, when she overhears the familiar cheerful cadence of Captain Harkness.

She freezes in place, sliding behind a column; since their nighttime conversation in the hallway, she has become more than a bit curious and perplexed about the strange American captain, curious enough to eavesdrop even. Plus, the captain’s been gone for several days, visiting various parts of North India, and Ambika didn’t realize he’d returned.

“...quite gorgeous,” he’s saying enthusiastically. “Descriptions of the Taj Mahal were not up-to-par with seeing the actual monument. It’s an unbelievable creation of the human mind.”

“Well,” comes the Duchess’s stilted, sniffling reply, “these Hindustanis manage to do something right once in a blue moon.”

Then there’s a moment of strained silence, as if the captain is searching for the right words. Ambika rolls her eyes; it’s a general effect of the Duchess, to cast one into shocked wordlessness, and it seems that even the charming captain is not immune.

Finally, the Duchess speaks again, tone cloyingly sweet. “So it seems that you enjoyed your trip. Were Mahajan’s arrangements to your satisfaction, Jack? The housing comfortable? The food cooked?” She sniffs again.

Captain Harkness laughs boomingly again, the sound echoing as it reaches Ambika. “Quite well and comfortable, thank you very much, but then again, I wouldn’t have complained if I were to be sleeping on a straw-covered floor. I was in the army; I’m used to sleeping rough.”

“Yes,” the Duchess says, “but that doesn’t mean _you should._ Not like commoners. We must get you accustomed to living a life of luxury, Captain.”

 _Does the Duchess truly believe that there aren’t beds in Wales?_ Ambika wonders, but she wouldn’t put it past the horrid woman. She leans closer against the pillar she’s tucked behind, stretching her neck and straining her ears to hear their conversation more distinctively.

“I appreciate that, Nellie,” Captain Harkness tells her. “You have been very accommodating and welcoming since I arrived at Torchwood India.”

Ambika notices he doesn’t say kind.

Conversation shifts for a few minutes as the captain describes more of his travels around Agra and neighboring cities. The Duchess brings up her day-to-day agenda at the Royal Connaught Club, and it all seems rather mundane, so much so that Ambika’s about to move away when the Duchess mentions Laksh.

“He has not yet appeared to have found anything about the composition of this alien artifact,” the Duchess says, and Ambika can imagine her slight frown well enough, “and he has been studying it for over a week. I am not sure he is even using the right equipment or if he’s just dull.”

“You should cut Laksh some slack,” the captain says cheerfully. “That specific artifact can’t be examined with human technology, or at least with the human technology of this time. He’s quite brilliant. Too brilliant for the equipment he uses, in fact. Imagine what he could find had he access to advanced technology. Everyone on your staff is quite brilliant; you shouldn’t discount them.”

The Duchess says, “They were all chosen by my late husband.” A moment later: “I am sorry, my dear captain, but do you actually know what this artifact is?” There is an edge of faint excitement to her voice that chills Ambika to her bones.

“Um, yes, well…” Several minutes later, the captain sighs heavily. “Yeah. It’s something I once came across in my past, before I became involved with Torchwood. It’s called a time stone.”

“A time stone?” the Duchess repeats. “And what does it do exactly, Jack? Is it dangerous?” Belatedly, half-heartedly: “Should I have taken more precautions to protect my staff?”

“No, no,” Jack says. “It should be okay. The time stone takes a very specific level of energy to trigger, and I don’t know if you have any Huon or artron energy particles or crystals lying about. So it should be fine.” He sighs again. “The time stone is essentially capable of creating and preserving an artificial time bubble for long amounts of time, but...it can be quite unstable, quite temperamental. And it comes at a high cost - the time stone runs on life energy.”

“As in, human energy?” the Duchess asks in a hushed voice. Ambika’s heart is beating uncontrollably, her eyes wide and horrified.

 _Who would create such a horrible device?_ she thinks. _Who would create something that worked by killing others?_

“Human energy,” Captain Harkness confirms unhappily, “plants, animals. Anything that has life. But theoretically, human energy would keep the time bubble produced by the time stone the most stable.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice becomes low and urgent. “You do understand just how dangerous this could be if triggered, right, Eleanor? Once Laksh is done studying it, you need to lock it back away in the archives. I’ll be taking it with me back to London.”

After a long, _long_ beat of strained silence, the Duchess finally says, “I understand, Jack. Believe me. I do.” A moment later: “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“Well, for everything, you silly man,” the Duchess says, words soft. “Thank you for being here. For being kind. For being _Jack._ ” She and the captain presumably kiss, Ambika grimacing at the noise.

“It was only my pleasure,” Captain Harkness says, only slightly stilted. He sounds as if he wishes to be elsewhere. Anywhere elsewhere.

“Suffice to say….” Then the Duchess hesitates, and Ambika leans closer, quite bewildered by this turn of conversation. “I think I’ve fallen in love with you,” she admits. “I may wish to never leave your side again, Captain.”

“Oh, _uhhhhhh,_ ” says Captain Harkness, sounding entirely out of his depth now. Finally: “Oh, Eleanor. I _certainly_ have feelings for you as well.” A beat. “How could I not? You are a _remarkable_ woman. I am not sure I’ve ever met anyone like you before.”

“Oh, Captain,” the Duchess replies, an upward, happy lilt to her words. “You flatter me far too much.”

And that is when Ambika decides that she has heard enough. She shuffles forward, eyebrows raised, heart pounding, attempting to process all of which she’s just heard.

* * *

**April 2009**

**Ianto**

“And thus she just left you here, for eighty years, in a time bubble,” Ianto surmises once Edward’s narration has ceased. He drags a heavy hand across his tired eyes, shivering. “ _Christ._ ”

He can’t imagine what that must have felt like. Oh, really, it would have been a blink of an eye while the world passed you by, but coming out of the other side? He remembers when the Daleks kidnapped the planet, leaving Gwen and him trapped in the Hub, saved by deus-ex-Toshina, afraid that the time-lock holding the Dalek would fail. The flashbacks from Canary Wharf hadn’t helped, nor had the sense of claustrophobia or bone-deep fear.

“I think that sums it up well,” Ambika agrees wearily as Laksh nods. Noor offers them a ragged smile.

“But what does the Duchess _want?_ ” Gwen asks, wide-eyed. Her grip tightens on the iron bars she’s been clutching, knuckles going white.

“I don’t know,” Laksh says, shrugging. “Racism, to take over the world, just general horridness? I never really cared enough to ask.”

While Ianto and Gwen chew on that, Ambika begins to pace the other cell, hand occasionally going to ghost along Noor’s back. It’s obvious that the two women are involved; Ambika may think she’s being subtle, and really, she is, but Ianto, who has been down a similar path for hiding his relationship with Jack, knows what to look for.

“We know that the time bubble worked,” she says finally, lips pursed, brow furrowed, the silk of her clothes swishing with every movement, “but how has it been sustained?” Upon catching Gwen and Ianto’s bewildered stares: “I overheard Captain Harkness explaining to the Duchess that the time stone fed on human energy.”

“Human energy,” repeats Gwen quietly, going pale with horror as she puts pieces of the puzzle together. “ _The Duchess wouldn’t, would she?_ ” She exchanges glances with Ianto, his own heart lodged in his throat. “No one could be _that monstrous._ ”

Laksh whirls around on Gwen, his eyes narrowed as he comes up to the bars to stare Gwen in the eyes. “What? What is it?” His tone is urgent, furious.

“If you know something,” Noor prompts, words soft, when Gwen hesitates, “then please tell us.”

Ianto can see the muscles in Gwen’s throat working, her lips flexing, as she attempts to speak, but it isn’t that she doesn’t wish to tell them. It is more like she cannot fathom _how._

So he does it for her, having pieced together what she has.

“As we told you previously, Gwen, Jack, and I followed an energy signal that rivalled the Rift here after we’d noticed that the signal had been surging in recent weeks,” he tells them. “And when we got here, we discovered that people were going missing. Indians, from the streets of Delhi.”

“Numbering in the hundreds in the past few weeks,” Gwen adds, eyes fixed on the floor. “I’d be willing to bet these disappearances have been going back for over eighty years but have only recently increased in number.”

Now, it’s rather obvious, but Ianto says it anyway, clearing his throat with a quiet cough. “I believe that the Duchess has been kidnapping, or ordering kidnapping of, Delhi citizens to power the time stone and keep the Royal Connaught Club frozen in 1924 for eighty-five years. And recently, she’s begun to escalate. Likely because the time stone is beginning to fail or because it’s become hungrier. I don’t know.”

There is shocked silence once Ianto finishes speaking, all four members of Torchwood India standing with faces contorted in shock and disbelief. Noor murmurs something in Hindi or a similar language that Ianto doesn’t catch, but that sounds like words of prayer. Her hand is gripped tightly around Ambika’s. Eventually, Edward fractures the stillness, barking a harsh, bitter laugh.

“Of course she did,” he says cruelly, almost mockingly. “ _Of course she fucking did._ ”

“Edward,” Ambika says softly.

“No, Ambika,” Laksh says suddenly, words impassioned. “Did we ever think anything other about Eleanor? She always regarded Hindustanis as disposable, as lesser than? Why should this be any different?”

“Why should this be any different?” Ambika repeats, handling each word as if it’s a heavy stone. “Why should it?” She turns to Noor with pleading eyes.

Edward scoffs again, tugging at the sleeves of his suit, toying with his cufflinks. “We always knew she murdered the Duke,” he murmurs, but now no one has a word of reply.

* * *

**February 24, 1924**

**Ambika**

Ambika’s jarred from her contented sleep, dreams about Noor swimming through the haze of her consciousness, by horrified screams that echo through even the thick walls of her bedroom. Her heart ricocheting in her chest, she yanks her shawl off the nearby chair where it was draped, unmindful of it accidentally snagging on a sudden edge and the delicate fabric tearing, and wraps it around herself as she slips her _jutti_ on and hurries into the hallway, where she finds a just-as-disheveled Noor, evidently having woken from sleep herself.

There is a hasty _dupatta_ wrapped around her head, and she locks eyes with Ambika while straightening the fabric out.

“ _What is happening?_ ” she asks in Hindi, the vowels and syllables tripping over each other in their haste to be voiced.

Ambika shakes her head, and then they both flinch as another scream echoes down the hallway, Noor murmuring in distress under her breath. “ _I do not know,_ ” she admits. “ _Let us go find out._ ”

At the end of the hallway, they bump into Laksh, his eyes bleary and his clothing rumpled as if he’d just scrambled into it. They ask him what the disturbance is, and he blinks slowly at them before he finally says, “ _I do not know either. The screaming just_ started _moments previous. I did not hear anything before._ ”

They round the corner, heading towards the main hall, their desks noticeably clean of any paper or files. The screaming continues, and Noor clutches Ambika’s arm tightly, her nails biting into Ambika’s skin despite the layers of fabric of her night garments. They verge towards the more private quarters - where the Duke’s office used to be, where the Duchess’s parlor is.

Edward is pressed against the wide doors of the Duchess’s parlor, peering inside, and he doesn’t even spare them a glance as they approach, although he does - a moment later - shuffle aside to allow Laksh, Ambika, and Noor to also gaze inside.

The Duchess stands in the midst of a hurricane. Her parlor is a wreck, various pieces of furniture broken into pieces, the carpet ripped up, shards of porcelain scattered across the floor, one of the light fixtures chipped. She herself is the furthest thing from composed - blond ringlets lying limply by her face, a silk robe drawn up tight around herself, fair face flushed bright red with anger, blue eyes wide and furious. She clutches a colorful plate in her hand, raises it high above the carpet, ready to heave it over her head. Mahajan is standing by her side, pleading with her to stop.

“Your Grace, please stop,” he begs, ducking by her side, as if her rage is tangible enough to cause him harm. “Please! We only have so many plates to spare. They will be expensive to replace.”

In response, she screams, the noise tearing from her throat and reverbating against the doors of the parlor so forcefully that Ambika can feel the vibrations, and smashes the plate against the nearest wall, sending sharp shards flying everywhere. The four on-lookers flinch, ducking back. Noor’s hand finds its way to Ambika’s grasp.

“ _I do not give a flying rat’s arse about what will be expensive to replace,_ ” she screeches, her hair flying about her face as she twists on her heel to glare at Mahajan. “ _He took everything! THAT BASTARD TOOK EVERYTHING!_ ”

“...so I’m sensing that Captain Harkness finally left,” Laksh attempts weakly, and when Edward coughs lightly, they all swivel around to glance at him.

“The archives are completely empty,” he admits. “The captain took _everything._ ”

Ambika’s mouth drops open in shock, Noor’s grip tightening around her hand, but before any of them can search for anything to say, the Duchess tosses another plate at a collapsed cabinet. They flinch again.

“ _That treacherous bastard,_ ” she hisses. “ _The next time I see him, I’m going to tear out that horrid heart. I’m going to slit that lying throat and STRANGLE HIM!_ ”

“She’s certainly taking it well,” Edward murmurs wearily.

“- _SHOOT HIM IN THE HEAD!_ ”

“Yup,” Ambika says, nodding. “ _Most definitely._ ”

“ _I am going to kill him,_ ” the Duchess finishes off finally, chest heaving, her robe fluttering open. She reaches to snatch another plate from the open, nearly-empty cabinet.

“Your Grace, please stop,” Mahajan attempts again, snivelling, but the next plate shatters a few inches from his head. He yelps and dives for cover. A moment later, he pulls himself to his feet, sniffing haughtily, before he scurries out the doors of the parlor, pushing past the four watching.

The Duchess’s screaming continues for another ten minutes, Ambika, Noor, Laksh, and Edward all watching on in horrified fascination. When Eleanor is done, there is practically nothing left to the room, or at least nothing that could be salvaged. Ambika would almost be impressed if she weren’t so disturbed.

“No,” the Duchess says breathlessly. “He won’t defeat me, that bastard, Jack Harkness. He may have taken Torchwood India from my grasp, but the British Raj will live on.” And from the pocket of her robe, she pulls the wireframe of the time stone, and someone gasps in horror. It might have been Ambika. “The British Raj will live on if it’s the last act of my life.”

* * *

**April 2009**

**Ianto**

“Shoot the fragment,” Edward orders, and Ianto steadies himself, wrapping his fingers around the handle of his gun. Laksh is posed mirroring him, his own gun aimed at the fragment. “You have to time it right. Shoot at the same time.”

“I know, Wright,” Laksh snaps at him, fingers quivering only slightly. Unlike Ianto, he does not look used to handling a weapon; Ianto supposes that he is only a physicist. “I was the one who calculated the physics of this all. Just...just count down.”

Ambika, Noor, and Gwen have stepped back, watching in dual fascination and hope. Just behind Ianto, he can practically hear Gwen holding her breath.

“Alright,” he murmurs and waits for Edward to begin the countdown, trying to tamp down his slight excitement at this James Bond-type escape they are attempting to engineer.

“Three,” Edward begins, and Ianto shakes his head, settling his shoulders. “Two.” Laksh inhales sharply. “One!”

The bullets rocket from the gun at nearly the same exact moment, and Ianto cannot tear his gaze away as they both hurtle towards the purple crystal fragment, which is set perfectly in the center of the gap between both cells. They both strike the fragment, Laksh’s bullet and aim only slightly more off than Ianto’s. For a brief moment, there is nothing.

Then almost as if in slow motion, a burst of purple energy bubbles outwards, first one spike, then another, ballooning up into a wave that creeps upward, the air in the room beginning to fizzle. Ianto briefly smells something burning, and he sniffs gingerly, trying not to glance away.

Time catches back up, and the energy _snaps_ outwards, rippling through the room. Ianto’s knocked backwards as Gwen reaches for him. Something sparks, and the acridic scent of burning increases, but Ianto’s no longer watching. There’s a loud _POP._

Then there’s silence.

Ianto gingerly pulls himself up, brushing dust off his shorts and t-shirt and nursing his bruised elbow. He extends a hand to Gwen and pulls her to her feet, watching as she limps around, nursing her right leg, and picks up her gun. She nudges the cell door, and it swings open with a clatter. Cautiously, Gwen inches through, Ianto following behind her, his own gun in hand.

Across the room, Laksh and the others are also shuffling through their own cell door. He stops by the fragment, now more of a crystal nub than anything, and picks it up.

“I don’t know if there’s anything left in this crystal,” he says, “but I’m hanging onto it.” Then he pockets it.

Ianto and Gwen exchange glances before Ambika snaps, “We’re wasting time. Let’s go.”

Gwen tears away first, Ianto following her lead, and she thunders down the hallway until she reaches the large empty main hall, heading straight for the stairs. Torchwood India follows behind closely, hesitating only to glance around the husk of their empty base.

Ianto’s legs and lungs are burning, but Jack is somewhere here, possibly in danger, and that spurs him on as he continues after Gwen.

Most of the club is empty, evening having long fallen hours previously judging by a glance outside the windows, and the Duchess, Jack, or Mahajan are nowhere to be found.

They cross down the main hallway and burst into the parlor where the Duchess had first entertained them, only to find the woman herself smiling gleefully, catlike. Her delicate fingers are wrapped around a small handgun which is currently aimed at a calm Jack. The man in question rolls his eyes, but they widen slightly when he notices Gwen and Ianto, dusty and bruised. They widen some more when his gaze drifts past Gwen and Ianto to Laksh, Ambika, Noor, and Edward. Jack pales.

The Duchess notices the members of Torchwood India too and grits her teeth. “Wonderful,” she says to the room. “Now everyone’s really here. They can all witness me shooting the marvelous Captain Jack Harkness in the head, just like I promised!”

* * *

**PART FOUR**

**February 25, 1924**

**Edward**

Edward wakes to the sounds of birds quietly chirping. It was one of the nicer things about living here - in Torchwood India. Streams of light coursed through the open window, simply outfitted with a mosquito net, and he could wake to the sounds of birds from outside. He was, presumably, the first one awake, as usual. Father had always stressed the importance of a timely schedule for a gentleman.

Not that it particularly matters now, anyway. Jack Harkness had come and gone, leaving nothing but an empty archive and a raging Duchess behind. It is time for him to move on; leave this base and this life and find something elsewhere. Perhaps moving back to London might be nice. Sure, there would be off-color looks at the color of his skin - he’s never truly been able to pass for wholly English, his skin just a little too brown for that - but he had friends there. Schoolboy friends and university friends, all of whom would be happy to see him again. Unlike here.

He’s never truly been able to fit in. Hindustan - the country of his mother - isn’t his home. Neither is it the dusty halls of Eton nor the warm summer rain of his family’s summer home in the English countryside. He doesn’t belong. He sticks out like a sore thumb wherever he goes, too colored to ever be properly English, born out of wedlock, the result of an affair with a maid. But far too “English” to be in Hindustan long enough. All his coworkers hate the British. They’re secret revolutionaries; they want Hindustani independence. He’s heard their conversations in Hindi - as much as he pretends not to understand it, he knows the language of his mother.

As he pulls out his dusty suitcases from under the bed, he wonders what he might do next. London, surely. He’s done with the country of his mother. But he isn’t sure where to go. Like it or not, Torchwood has seeped under his skin and clung to his bones. He’s not sure what else he can do.

There are bases in London, Scotland, and Wales, he thinks to himself, as he folds and puts away trousers into his suitcase. Perhaps he might go to one of them, beg for a job. Wales sounded wet and rural, but he knew Jack Harkness well enough, and the man seemed to like him, so he had an in there.

Wales would be a fresh start. No more Duchess yelling and treating him with half the respect of his fellow Englishman because of his mother’s birthplace. No more Laksh and Ambika, giving him dirty looks and contempt for having loyalty to his home. And no more Noor, with her pity and her attempts to include him in conversations that no one wanted him to be a part of. He’s done.

Someone knocks on his door as he’s pulling out one of his suits and placing it properly in a garment bag. He grunts to indicate he’s awake, and to his surprise, Noor walks in. She gives him a tentative smile and shuts the door.

“Can I help you?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. She doesn’t respond, simply walking over and sitting down on the chair in his room. Her dupatta brushes the arm of the chair, and she pulls it back up to drape over her arm.

“Packing?” she asks.

“Yes,” he responds politely, and Noor looks down, fiddling with the edge of her kurti. “Did you need something?”

“Edward, what are you doing?” she asks, trapping him in an uncomfortable stare. “The Duchess is planning something - we both know that. And you’re packing? Leaving?”

“Yes,” he snaps. “I had a job, and now the job is no longer there, so I am leaving. It’s just like any other job.”

“We have a duty to Torchwood,” Noor says, tone rising slightly. “Don’t you care?”

“Torchwood fired us. Our duty is over.” He reminds her. “I have no loyalty to this organization anymore.”

“Well, if you don’t care about Torchwood, then what about this country?” she pleads. “Surely you can’t agree with what the Duchess is doing. You have a duty to Hindustan!”

“Noor, I have even less duty to this country than I do Torchwood,” he says, laughing humorlessly. “I’m not even Indian - I’m English.”

“Your mother is-”

“-My mother has nothing to do with this,” he interrupts. “She’s got nothing to do with my nationality.”

“Regardless, your mother is Indian,” Noor says. “It doesn’t matter what you feel because she is one. Don’t you owe her a better country?”

“I-” he starts to say, when Noor cuts him off.

“Edward, please think about it. I’m asking you, as a coworker and as a _friend_ ,” she says, getting off the chair. “I know we don’t see eye to eye on many things, but I hope we can be united in this.”

Then, without waiting for him to answer, she walks out the door, leaving him alone in his room. Alone, with a new problem. Alone, wondering if he’s doing the right thing.

* * *

**April 2009**

**Jack**

Jack and Eleanor stroll arm in arm back through the gates of the building and walk to the opulent parlor. They both haven’t said a word to each other, but they don’t need to. Eleanor is still reeling from Jack’s rejection of her, and Jack is slowly turning an idea in his mind.

The idea is horrifying. He doesn’t want to believe it. But however much he tries to convince himself otherwise, he’s put all the pieces together.

And he can’t justify waiting any longer.

“I know what you did,” he says harshly, staring into her eyes, Eleanor lets out a delicate little laugh in response, eyes darting away from him to gaze at the painting above the mantle.

“Did what?” she asks, looking amused. “Are we playing some sort of game? Is this a-”

“-I know you’ve kept the time stone,” he cuts her off. “I know you’ve been using it for the last eighty years.” Eleanor’s face grows white, her mouth opening slightly in shock, but he doesn’t bother stopping.

“That’s why you and the club are still here, right?” he asks, already knowing the answer. “Eleanor, what do you power your Time Store on?”

Eleanor breathes out, and he glares at her. “Answer me!” he demands.

“I suppose we kept back just one teensy-weensy bit of alien technology,” she says, laughing slightly. “When you shut down Torchwood India, we knew the writing was on the wall for the Empire, and we didn't want that to happen. We vowed that nothing would change. We didn't want any part of the new India, not that ghastly Gandhi, none of it.”

“Eleanor, this is madness!” he cries, staring at her in horror. She shakes her head, looking quite put out, probably because he’d figured it out.

“It's been February the 29th, 1924 in here for ever such a long time.” she smiles slightly. “We let it all go by. Another world war, independence, partition.”

“Duchess, how exactly is it powered? Because I know exactly what a Time Store is. Ideal for keeping a bacon sandwich fresh for a few years, but you've kept an entire Indian club in a time bubble for over eighty years - the amount of energy that would take is-”

“-We've adapted to survive,” says Eleanor, a smirk gracing her face. “Oh don’t look at me like that, you were the one who told me what it ran on.”

“The power! Eleanor! Where does it come from?” he yells at her, slapping his hand against his thigh anxiously.

“We found an almost inexhaustible supply of fuel. And no one even noticed. Until you came,” she remarks, a little bitterly. He knows the answer already, he just can’t bear to hear it.

“No. I can’t believe-”

“-Yes, Jack, we've been using the one thing India has a surplus of,” she says maniacally. “People.”

“You’ve been sacrificing the citizens of Delhi for your own benefit to keep the club alive,” he says, disgusted. “That’s why the people have gone missing. That’s you.”

“Perhaps,” she says. “We needed to use _something_ to power that stone.”

“Eleanor, what have you done?” he manages to get out, eyes squinting and face twisted.

“I haven’t even done anything yet.” she smiles. “You see, we aren’t just going to stop at the club. We're going to get enough power to put the whole world inside the bubble.”

“No!”

“One big whoosh, and we're taking the whole Earth back to 1924. We're going to start all over again.” She grins, and he can see no trace of the elegant woman she pretended to be in the courtyard. “We’re bringing this country back to Britain’s Golden Age!”

“You can't turn back the clock. Time has moved on,” he pleads with her. “You don't get another chance!”

“1924 is where it all started to go wrong. But not this time,” she continues uninterrupted. “First, we'll take care of Mr Churchill and all his talk of independence, and if we make a mistake, then we'll keep going and going, until we get it right.”

“And what about all those people you've killed, don't they get a say in this brave new world you’re planning?” he asks sardonically.

“But that's the beauty of the scheme. They'll never have existed, so I'll never have killed them,” she says. Jack realizes that there’s no way that she’s going to stop - no way to convince her that she’s doing the wrong thing.

“I can’t let you do this,” he says. “I’m going to make you stop - no, me, Ianto, and Gwen are going to make you stop.”

“Oh I know.” she smiles, pulling a handgun from inside her dress. “And that’s why I’m going to stop you first.”

She raises the gun and cocks it, pointing it straight at Jack’s face. He shakes his head.

“You do know that gun's not gonna kill me, right?” he asks, raising his hands. “I’ll just get up again.”

“But I bet it stings like hell.” she grins gleefully. “And more importantly, it’ll keep you down long enough so I can feed your Welsh minions to the time stone!”

He rolls his eyes, scanning past her to see if there’s anything he can use to distract her, so he can run and find Gwen and Ianto. Then he sees a movement to his right, and both he and Eleanor turn their faces to the disturbance. His eyes widen when he sees Gwen and Ianto - relief floods him at the knowledge that they’re here and safe, and he hopes they’ve brought out their guns.

Then he looks past them and sees an even stranger sight, one that makes his eyes widen considerably more. Behind his friends are the four members of Torchwood India, looking exactly the same as when he saw them eighty years ago. He pales - are they in on this too? He didn’t think they would, but how else could they still look the exact same?

Eleanor grits her teeth at the sight. “Wonderful,” she says, teeth bared in a humorless farce of a smile. “Now everyone’s really here. They can all witness me shooting the marvelous Captain Jack Harkness in the head, just like I promised!”

* * *

**March 1, 1924**

**Edward**

Edward stares absently at the door. He tries to get himself to pack more, but he can’t seem to get Noor’s words out of his mind. He hasn’t really thought about his mother in so long - it has been even longer since he’d seen her. Not that he’s seen her much when he still could.

He used to visit her once every month until he was thirteen, when his father sent him to Eton to be a proper gentleman. Then he never saw her again.

He still remembers the last visit with his mother, when she had taken him walking by the nearby river. He had clutched his mothers hand as they strolled by the deserted bank during the early morning, the sun still a red speck rising in the sky.

_“Are you excited for your new school?” asked his mother in Marathi. That was the only language she spoke and it flowed from her mouth naturally, words as sweet as honey, unlike his own choppy part Hindi, part Marathi, part English blend. Grandfather had insisted on English in the house, but Father had gotten away with letting him learn Hindi, and his mother solely spoke to him in Marathi. As a result, he’d gotten perfect English, but a motley mix of other languages._

_“Yes, Maai,” he responded. “Father says it will teach me how to be a good English Man.”_

_“So he does.” smiled his mother. She’d sometimes give him that odd smile, the one where it looked like she might cry. Edward didn’t like that smile much._

_“When are you leaving?” she asked, gripping his hand tightly._

_“Next week. Father says we’re going to get to ride on a ship,” he responds excitedly. “Grandmother says England is a beautiful country.”_

_“Yes, I suppose she would,” remarked his mother. “Still, I hope you won’t forget where you’re from.”_

_“Father says we’re from England,” Edward said, wincing at the way his mother squeezed his hand extra tightly after he said that. She sniffed and he looked at her funnily. “What?”_

_“Nothing,” she said quickly, turning her face towards the river. “Do you know what this river is called?”_

_“No, Maai.”_

_“It’s called the Godhavari. It’s a holy river but it’s not as holy as the Yamuna River. Do you remember when I told you about Krishna?” she asked._

_“Yes,” said Edward. “You told me that story already.”_

_“-When Krishna was born, his father Vasudeva had to carry him across the river Yamuna.” his mother interrupted him. “Vasudeva was afraid of drowning, but he had to do it anyway, because it was the right thing to do.”_

_“Father Michael says that Krishna is a heathen god and we must not bow down to false idols,” Edward said, repeating what Father Michael had told him when he talked about Krishna with him at church. “He says I must accept Jesus as my lord and I shall be rewarded in Heaven.”_

_“Oh, Edward, Krishna or Jesus, it doesn’t matter,” his mother sighed, turning to look into his eyes. She cupped his cheek and stared at him. “What matters is what we do - not who we pray to. That’s all I want to tell you. If something is the right thing to do, then we must do it.”_

_“Even if it’s hard?”_

_“Especially if it’s hard. No matter what, no matter who you worship, I want you to remember that,” his mother says earnestly. “Our actions matter most of all. And the most important thing is to do the right actions.”_

_She kissed his cheek and walked back with him to the big bungalow where he lived with Father, and Grandfather, and Grandmother. His mother pulled him in for a big hug, smashing him against her chest. Then she kissed him on the forehead one last time and waved goodbye as he walked into his house, tears in her eyes, and wearing that smile that he hated._

Presumably she had known that Edward would never be able to see her again. He hadn’t. When he’d returned to Hindustan for a summer holiday, none of the adults in the family answered his questions about where she was.

Edward wipes a tear from his eye as he thinks about that memory. His mother had put on a smile and a good face, even knowing their time had come to an end. He wonders where she is, how she’s doing, and if she’s still alive. He wonders what she might think of him. He’s no longer the gangly thirteen-year-old, still a child. He’s an adult - a man.

Noor’s words from before cut deep into him, like a vise. It makes him worry if he’s making the right decision by leaving, abandoning this country to the Duchess’s claws and not looking back.

“ _Don’t you owe her a better country”_

He does. He owes her so much more than he could ever possibly give; he misses her more than anyone. She was a “nobody” according to his father. A maid, someone who his father had spent a few nights with then promptly forgotten about. But he owes her so much more. She’d loved him. And he still loves her even if it’s been years since they’ve spoken. He might not be able to find her, but he can do this for her. He can do the _right_ thing.

He hopes his mother would be proud of him.

* * *

**April 2009**

**Jack**

“How did you get out?” Eleanor demands. “You shouldn’t have been able to!”

Jack guesses that means they weren’t in on Eleanor’s plan then. They didn’t seem the type anyway - of the conversations he’d had with them, they had all been intelligent people, graced with the common sense and empathy that the Duchess clearly lacked.

He hated how blindsided he was by the Duchess’s cruel actions. He knew she was a racist, he knew she held the same xenophobic, imperialist attitudes towards anyone who was not the same as her. He saw how dismissive she was of her staff.

Laksh, a brilliant physicist, far too intelligent for the rudimentary technology of 1924. Ambika, a talented technician who had ideas well beyond her time. Edward, an uninvolved doctor, who truly did care for the people on his team, even if they didn’t get along. And Noor, the secretary who excelled at any job she was given, and went above and beyond in any task she set herself to.

Eleanor had maligned them, mistreated them, and taken them for granted. He shouldn’t have been so ignorant of her actions. He’d simply thought that she was just like every other English Royal at the time - racist, imperialist, and xenophobic. But she was far worse.

Jack didn’t know how he could excuse himself not recognizing the depths of the Duchess’s capabilities.

“It doesn’t matter,” sneers Ambika, shaking him out of his thoughts. “You can’t do this.”

“Oh, and are you going to stop me?” Eleanor laughs sardonically. “You and those Welsh lackeys of Captain H can’t do a single thing.”

“You’re a monster. How many people have you killed in cold blood in your incessant quest to bring back a sham of an era? How many have you slaughtered, just so you could keep sipping tea while the century has moved by you?” Edward asks, clenching his fists intermittently, like he’s trying to stop himself from slamming one into the Duchess and knocking her out. “It’s been eighty years - how many innocent lives were lost so you could keep living in your perfect world, where you get everything you want and damn the consequences. Damn the people who were alive and aren’t now because of you. Damn the whole world, let it go to hell just for you and your desires.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Eleanor says, still pointing the gun at him. “All in service to King and Country.”

“This machine's changed you. You're no longer human,” Laksh snarls at her. “Not that you ever were in the first place.”

“Oh, but I'm still British,” Eleanor responds, shrugging. “And I won’t let anything stop me.”

“How many have you killed?” demands Edward. “Tell me - face those that you’ve murdered!”

“Oh, could be in the thousands now,” says Eleanor, without even flinching. “A few less beggars on the streets, empty houses in the slums, but easier to get a seat on the train. That's the true horror of modern India.”

“You _bitch_ ,” Gwen snaps. “Of course people have noticed. You probably just don’t go outside and leave the safety of your imperialist fantasy.”

“How could you do this, don’t you care at all?” Noor asks, sounding horrified. A while ago, Jack might have said yes. But now, after seeing all that she’s done?

He doesn’t think she does.

“Edward, last chance to join me in making our country great again,” Eleanor says pointedly. “I know you think of yourself as an Englishman, a proper one at that. Leave them behind - help me and you’ll be accepted where you belong, with us.”

“I’ll never be accepted with you,” Edward says, shaking his head. “And even if I was, I wouldn’t join you in a million years. You’re a monster, a heartless, cold monster. You’ve stolen people from off the street and used them, killed them, to fuel your own desires. And the worst part is that you don’t even feel sorry for your actions. You don’t see us - Hindustanis - as people. You see us as objects, tools even, for your use. You think you can just use us and dispose of us like we aren’t even human? No, you can’t. We won’t let you continue this any longer. We will stop you. And you deserve everything that’s coming to you.”

“Now,” yells Laksh, and he and his team pull out their guns and aim at the Duchess.

Jack notices her hand shaking slightly as she continues to point the handgun at him, and realizes this is his only chance. She isn’t paying attention to him, her eyes darting from gun barrel to gun barrel. In a split second he makes his decision.

Jack lunges forward.

* * *

**March 2, 1924**

**Edward**

“Thank you for coming to meet me,” Edward says to his colleagues, two of whom are looking incredibly bored and ready to leave at any moment. “I know I have not always been conducive to your ideas and vice versa but I think that I have to say this.”

“Edward, what do you want?” asks Laksh, cutting straight to the point, staring at him in contempt. He had refused to sit down like Noor and Ambika, simply standing by the door giving him an intensely uninterested look. Edward takes a deep breath and stares at him intently.

“What the Duchess is doing is wrong,” he says, watching his colleagues’ faces morph in shock. “She is dangerous, a menace to our society, and we must do something about it.”

“We already know she’a a dangerous woman,” Ambika says harshly. “And anyways, you didn’t want anything to do with this a week ago.”

“Why should we trust you now?” asks Laksh, lip curling as he regards Edward with the same dissatisfied look he’s given him since he first started.

“Because it is the right thing to do,” answers Edward, his mother’s final words ringing in his ears. “I know we have not always gotten along. I know we have rarely seen eye to eye on things. But what the Duchess is doing is wrong. And it is our duty to stop her.”

They are silent for a while. Laksh and Ambika stare at him in disbelief, while Noor casts her gaze to the floor and bites her lip. He hopes he’s made a good case for himself, that they will help him. Regardless of whether or not he has allies, he is going to do something.

He must.

“Okay,” Noor says finally, and everyone turns to look at her. “I believe you, Edward. And you are right. We must do something about the Duchess.”

Laksh looks at him and Edward nods once, hoping his expression will prove his loyalty and his genuineness. He may not like Laksh all that much, and clearly the opposite is true as well, but he needs him. He cannot do this alone.

“Fine,” says Laksh, dropping the suspicious look from his face. “We _must_ stop her. And we need all the help we can get.”

“What should we do?” asks Noor, looking at Ambika longingly. “Where do we even begin?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” says Laksh, running a hand through his hair and pinching the bridge of his nose. “How do we stop her if we have absolutely no idea what she’s even planning?”

“Well, I may have overheard a conversation between the Captain and the Duchess,” Ambika says slowly. “About the time stone. He told her about it.”

“Well what did he say?” asks Laksh impatiently.

“He said it was capable of creating and preserving an artificial time bubble for long amounts of time,” says Ambika. “And that it was highly unstable.”

“So when the Duchess said that she was going to keep the British Raj going,” Edward trailed off.

“Oh my god! She’s going to trap this club in a time bubble,” Laksh says, words tumbling from his mouth in a rush, eyes wide with fear. He mutters something under his breath in Tamil, probably curses about the Duchess. Edward expects he would do the same thing, and that brief moment of similarity amuses him for a second, calming his ongoing sense of dread.

Then it comes back in full swing when Ambika opens her mouth.

“Wait,” Ambika says in a pinched voice. “There’s more. The Captain also said it ran on life energy.”

“Life energy?” asks Noor, eyebrows furrowed into a frown. “What does that mean?”

“Human energy,” Ambika says. “Like, anything with life can power it, but human energy can keep it going the longest. Presumably the human energy has to come from somewhere.”

“So where the hell will she get this energy from?” asks Edward. Laksh turns to him with a horrified look.

“From us,” he says raspily.

“What?”

“Think about it. We don’t matter to her, she doesn’t care for us other than to use us for our skills. What happens when she doesn’t need our skills anymore?” Laksh asks.

“We become her batteries,” whispers Noor shakily. Ambika scoots over to clutch at her hand, and Edward is horrified at the Duchess, her callous attitude, and her foolhardy plan, which will probably end up getting them all killed.

“Christ,” he mutters. He wonders if he should start reciting the Lord’s Prayer - if that might give him comfort in what could be his last hours.

“We have to do something,” Ambika demands. “We have to confront her. And we take that stone and stop her plans.”

“But how?” asks Edward. The situation seems horrible to him; she holds all the cards and they are at her mercy. She has the power to drain them of life. She has the power of a god.

“I’ll pull a gun from the armory,” says Laksh grimly. “I’ve not shot anything before, but the Duke taught me when I first arrived. I hated him for making me learn and I don’t want to shoot anyone, but if it will help, I am willing to do it.”

“We can order her to stop,” Edward says, a small bit of hope returning in his chest. “Laksh will point the gun at her, and we will take the stone away and return it to Captain Harkness.”

“It’s the only thing we can do,” says Ambika, and Edward hopes it will work.

 _Please help us,_ he prays in his head. _Please, help us do the right thing. Please let us win._

* * *

**April 2009**

**Jack**

Jack lunges forwards and topples Eleanor to the ground. She shrieks, writhing underneath him like a worm trying to free itself from a fishing rod, and starts to slam at him with her fists and the butt of the gun. Jack grabs her hand and tries to pry the gun from her, but she’s holding on too tight. Meanwhile, everyone else rushes forward and pulls at the Duchess’ hand, trying to pry open the fingers she has clenched around the handle of the gun.

The melee is halted when Jack hears the blast of a gun go off and a bullet hitting the ceiling. Little pieces of plaster hit the floor and they all turn to look at Mahajan, who is raising a gun at the ceiling.

“Stop or I shoot,” he orders, pointing the gun straight at them. “Put down the Duchess and put your hands in the air.”

“Or what, you’ll shoot us?” asks Laksh, releasing Eleanor and pointing his own gun at Mahajan. “Try it and see what I’ll do.”

“No,” replies Mahajan, putting a finger in his pocket. He extracts a glowing purple crystal - one that looks very familiar to Jack - and shows it to everyone. “Recognize this?”

“No,” whispers Ambika, looking shaken. “No you can’t!”

“What is that?” asks Ianto, panicked.

“It’s the time stone,” Jack says, eyes widening. “You’re going to activate it.”

“Yes,” Mahajan snarled. “And this here will keep you trapped forever. No more second chances. No more miraculous escapes.”

“Mahajan, please,” Noor pleads. “Please, stop this madness!”

But it’s too late. Taking advantage of his distraction, Eleanor topples Jack off her and holds the gun to his chest. The silence of the room collapses. Edward lunges for Mahajan, who’s not expecting it, and Jack proceeds to wrestle with the Duchess, trying to pull away her gun.

“Catch!” yells Edward, and tosses the time stone towards them. It spirals across the air, casting a bright purple light through the room. Jack lunges for it, but is blocked by Eleanor who takes the opportunity to shove him out of the way. The time stone slams into Gwen and bounces off onto the floor, hitting it with a crash.

It starts to spark.

“Get it,” the Duchess screeches, and lunges to grab it but Ambika reaches it first. The Duchess claws at her hair, yanking her closer and Ambika throws it near Noor, who doesn’t quite manage to catch it. Jack grabs at Eleanor - pulling her back - and to his utter shock, she shoots him.

The bullet embeds itself in his ribs and a pulsating pain emanates from it. Jack holds his hands over the wound, pressing down harshly and letting out a sharp gasp as it stings.

The room devolves into chaos after that, a tangle of arms and legs all grasping for the time stone, and Jack just collapses onto the ground, the bullet incapacitating his movements as he desperately hopes someone will catch the time stone before the Duchess and Mahajan can use it to destroy the world. Throughout this the stone sends off little sparks, making him extremely concerned for the safety of all present.

Finally Mahajan, who’s been grappling with Edward this entire time, manages to throw him off and raises his gun to Laksh’s hand, which is the closest to the stone. He fires off a bullet, clearly aiming for Laksh, but misses and hits the stone instead.

Immediately it fizzles and begins to toss massive sparks, bathing the room in a violet glow. Everyone freezes as the stone begins to expand. A loud hissing noise emerges from the stone, sending everyone bolting to the edge of the room.

“Cover yourselves,” Jack yells, pressing down onto his bullet wound. He’ll be damned if he lets any of his team get hurt. Everything around him is turning to dust - the furniture, the paintings, the carpet. Time is catching up to The Royal Connaught Club - eighty years is enough to turn everything into dust. Including humans.

Eleanor and Mahajan gasp and fall down screaming for a moment before they start melting - their bodies collapsing against the weight of time itself. They sink down to the floor until nothing is left of them but dust. They’re not out of the safe zone yet though. All of the energy has to go somewhere.

“Head down,” he screams, panicked, and hopes that everyone follows his instructions. The time stone gets bigger and bigger until all he can see is purple light, no more parlor. His bullet wound aches, blood gushing from between his fingers, and he’s sure he’ll bleed out soon. If the club doesn’t collapse first.

Then everything goes black.

* * *

**March 3, 1924**

**Edward**

They find the Duchess in her parlor down in the base. She’s idly flipping through a magazine, her lips pursed. Her dress today is bergamot-colored silk, her hair wound upwards. Mahajan is by the bar in the corner, mixing her a cocktail.

Torchwood India storms right in, Laksh in the lead. Startling Mahajan into dropping a cocktail shaker, Laksh forces the parlor doors open and walks up to the Duchess, levelling a gun to her head. Edward flanks his left, Ambika his right. Noor is sandwiched slightly behind them.

The Duchess glances up calmly, unperturbed, and sets her magazine aside. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Enough is enough,” Laksh says restlessly, his finger heavy on the trigger. He inhales sharply, and Edward nearly takes a step back. He’s never seen the physicist so borderline reckless, but he supposes they have fallen over the precipice of caution now.

The safety of Hindustan, nay, the world, is at stake now.

“Hand over the time stone,” he continues.

Eleanor barely blinks as she meets Laksh’s gaze. “No,” she says. “I will not give up my chance at ensuring the immortality of the British Raj.”

“No?” echoes Ambika, her lip curling. She nearly shoves past Laksh as she moves forward, but remains standing just off to his side. “Your British Raj is illegitimate, a farce. It was never wanted here, and it certainly will never be immortalized.” She straightens her shoulders. “The British Raj is crumbling. Why do you think they shut Torchwood India down?”

“ _How dare you?_ ” the Duchess snarls, shaken by the sudden ferocity of Ambika, a woman she’s always seen as - likely - demure and snivelling. “You have no basis to speak to me like this. This is most improper. You should be grateful that my husband even gave you imbeciles jobs.” She smiles most unnervingly, sending chills down Edward’s spine. “He was a starry-eyed fool. He cared not for the Raj if he thought it was progress this musty place was making, but of course, I took care of that.”

“ _You ignorant cow,_ ” Noor says quietly in Hindi. “ _I did not think Allah made monsters like you._ ” In English: “Do you even know what using that artifact will cost?” A beat. “Lives.”

The Duchess laughs jaggedly, unmindful of the way the gun focused on her sways. “Disposable ones.” She smirks. “No one will care if one less beggar crowds the streets.” She turns to Edward. “And why do you ally yourself with them, Doctor? You are British-made, a product of Eton and Oxford.”

Edward stiffens, a hot stroke of anger lashing up his spine. “I am Hindustani-born,” he says. “My mother was born in Maharashtra. I always considered myself slightly superior to these three because of how I was raised, but in the end, you always equated me to them, so why shouldn’t I?”

“Hand over the time stone,” Laksh pressures, “and we will let you leave here alive.”

Smirk widening, the Duchess pulls the time stone from the folds of her dress and holds it to the light, watching the wireframe gleam. “This is what you want?” she asks, and Laksh nods angrily. But the Duchess doesn’t make to move, because from behind them, there is a shout.

“You cannot do this,” shouts Mahajan, eyes narrowed. This is the most reactive Edward has ever seen the squirrel-faced bastard. “The Duchess has never treated you with anything but what you deserve. She will bring Hindustan a new, _wonderful_ golden age. We cannot be trusted to govern ourselves.”

“She will never see you as anything other than scum beneath her boot,” Laksh warns, his expression disbelieving.

Mahajan’s face contorts, and he whips a long, gleaming purple crystal from his pocket. The Duchess’s eyes widen, her fingers knotting against the silver wire of the time stone, but she stays silent as Mahajan smashes the crystal onto the carpet. A wave of energy roars through the air, ballooning from where the crystal lies split in two, sparks shattering the air in the parlor. Laksh begins to yell, Ambika reaching for Noor. Edward attempts to lunge forward for Mahajan.

Then time _slows_ and _stops._

* * *

**April 2009**

**One week later**

**Jack**

“How was Chandni Chowk?” asked Jack, cramming half a _naan_ into his mouth.

“You might consider _chewing_.” Ianto winces, and the rest of them laugh as Jack rolls his eyes at him.

Gwen and Ianto had volunteered (read: insisted) on taking the four members of Torchwood India out sightseeing through Delhi. Gwen, in particular, told him that if he’d dragged them halfway across the world to almost die, they deserved to have a few days off. He wholeheartedly agreed that they deserved a break.

So Gwen and Ianto went off to explore the city and he cleaned up the remains of the club. The seven of them had been left in a crater, surrounded by grey grime, like they’d taken a joytrip to the aftermath of a volcanic eruption. If he’d wanted, he was sure that everyone would pitch in to help out. But he didn’t want any help.

It was his mistake to trust Eleanor and to not double check that he’d packed every artifact, and he had to tie up his own loose ends. He had to clean up his own messes.

So he’d painstakingly cleaned up the club, which at this point had all but crumbled into dust. He’d picked apart the base and the club and double-checked that everything had gone, then checked who owned the land. Unsurprisingly, it was still owned by Torchwood, even eighty years later. And since he was technically the director of all Torchwood branches, save Archie who didn’t give a damn about anything, he could do whatever he wanted with the land.

He’d decided on donating it to a local shelter who was looking for a place to construct a new building. There may as well be something good that came of Torchwood India.

“It was good,” said Ambika, sitting down next to Noor. “It’s gotten quite bigger, but you can still tell it’s got the same-”

“-Feeling,” finishes Noor. “It’s been interesting though.”

“The twenty-first century is truly interesting.” smiles Laksh. “I can’t wait to see what other new developments have occurred in the world. Cell phones in particular seem so interesting.”

“Oh, there’s been quite a few.” Jack smiles back. “I know what it’s like to be in a time that’s not really yours. It can be hard at times.”

“I think it shall,” says Edward, quite solemnly. “But it is a new world. A world free of the Duchess.”

“And of British rule,” says Laksh with a grin.

“Since 1945,” says Jack. “It’s a whole new world out there for you four. A new India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh.”

“So, what are you going to do?” asks Gwen. “Because we’re leaving tonight. Do you have any idea what you’re planning on doing?”

No one responds, and Jack gets a small idea. They’re understaffed anyway - the loss of Owen and Tosh has left them in need of a doctor and a technician. And they could always use a few extra hands on deck.

“You could always come and work with us,” Jack suggests, raising an eyebrow. “We’ll always need more people back in Cardiff.”

For a moment, no one speaks. The four ex-members of Torchwood India simply look at each other, communicating silently through their dark gazes. Camaraderie was always good to have in a team.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” says Laksh, smiling. “But we can’t come up to Wales. We’ve got too much work left to do here.”

“We’re going to stay here, in the shadows, and watch over India while living normal lives. Or, as normal as we can get,” supplies Ambika. “Someone’s got to be this country’s defense.”

“And we’re going to do it,” says Edward. “We've got to.”

Jack smiles at them. “Then I wish you the best of luck,” he says, shaking everyone's hand. Gwen gives them all big hugs, Ianto opting for smiles and handshakes instead, and they look at each other.

“Time to go home?” he asks, laughing when the both of his team, his family, nod their heads. Jack snags another _naan_ from the table, and the three of them walk off, heading home, leaving what remains of Torchwood India back at the table.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and/or comments are always appreciated!
> 
> Find Nik on Tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/) or on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/rajkumarinik). Find Vi on Tumblr [here](http://violetmessages.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Reblog the fic post on Tumblr [here](https://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/post/639178447629008896/title-fools-gold-link-here-written-by).


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